The First Guard
by Neleothesze
Summary: In the Brecilian Forest, a fading spirit offered a deal: freedom in death in return for its knowledge. It seemed a bargain, but the wandering elven mage grew greedy and 'Dalish' is left to inhabit a body she does not wish, in a world where there are no ancient elven lords to champion... Except perhaps one. Solas/Dalish(Bull's Chargers); DAOArcaneWarriorSpirit!Dalish; slight AU
1. Prologue

**Full Summary: **"Dalish don't have templars, so they can't have too many mages in a clan at once."

Indeed, a clan cannot afford too many mages and so the Dalish elf traveled the lands. Deep in the Brecilian Forest, in a secret chamber inside long-forgotten ruins, the fading spirit of Obris, First Guard to her Lord, offered a very unusual arrangement: freedom in death in exchange for spirit's knowledge. It seemed a bargain, but the young mage grew greedy and 'Dalish' is left to inhabit a body she does not wish, in a world where there are no ancient elven lords to champion... Except perhaps one.

**Tags**: slight Canon-Divergence/AU; DA:O-ArcaneWarriorSpirit!Dalish; Minor Canonical Characters; Minor Character Death; eventual Solas/Dalish;

**Author's Note: **Unlike my other stories, the protagonists won't be very _nice_ people. Not evil, but perhaps mean, cruel or owing that particular brand of apathy which lets bystanders watch a crime and move on. I hope they'll still be interesting.

The build of the story demanded an OC cast for the first chapters but by chapter three we should be moving into more familiar territory, with Dalish joining the Bull's Chargers... and the Bull's Chargers offering their services to the Inquisition. :D

* * *

><p><strong>Table of Contents<strong>

**Part One (Chapters 1 - 5) Dalish**

**Part Two (Chapters 6 - 10) Solas**

**Part Three (Chapters 11 - 15) Obris**

**Part Four (Chapters 16 - 20) Fen'harel**

**PART ONE****:**** Dalish**

**PROLOGUE**

'_Our Keeper thought I should see the world a little.'_

**8:66 Dragon**

"Come closer, _da'len_. These old eyes fail me… You seem so youthful still." the Keeper rasped, squinting at his former charge. The girl had a harsh sort of beauty; her skin stretched tightly across hollow cheeks and curved into a narrow, tight-lipped smile. When she spoke, it was in a low, lilting voice that felt faintly mocking.

"Do I? I will tell you a story Keeper. It will even be a true story for we are here, at your deathbed, and this deserves no less. Forty-two years ago, you called the clan together and spoke such: "_Magic runs strong in the blood of the Ranae but we can ill-afford to keep so many mages with the clan, not when the shemlen and their Chantry watch us like starved, slavering wolves, waiting for any misdeed to drive us from these lands. There shall be a First and a Second. All other children born with the gift will leave the clan upon being granted their vallaslin, and seek their fortune in the world._"'

"There was no choice, _da'len_."

The young mage frowned, but her fingers were gentle as they smoothed over the Keeper's skin, tracing the man's deep wrinkles and the vallaslin's curving lines.

"There is always a choice, but one would have required the clan to give up many of the comforts of living next to one of the large human cities, while the other simply removed some of the baggage. Regardless, the mages left.

Brave little Maial journeyed far past the Dales, high into the Frostback Mountains and deep into the Brecilian Forest for what are human borders to the Dalish. It was a dark time, harsh and dangerous, but also filled with wonder at the mysteries she uncovered, from the ruins of Elgar'nan's Bastion to the halls of the Hollow Spires."

"I have never heard of these places you mention, _da'len_."

"You wouldn't have, Keeper. Their name has long since been lost to time. But the girl did find them and in a secret chamber in the crumbling Hollow Spires she met a spirit."

"A demon?!"

"No, the half-mad soul of an elf who should have died long ago if not for the thrice-cursed desires of her lord and master."

"Creators preserve us… You met one of the ancient elves?"

"Ancient elves… Yes, I suppose the title applies. The young mage met the soul of an ancient elf and the elf shared her plight: she had been bound to service, though that cruel enchantment now bound her only to an eternal limbo - neither wholly alive, nor wholly a spirit. For thousands of years she had languished, she told gentle Maial, and begged for death.

For such sweet release she offered all of her arcane knowledge, both mundane and of the warrior-mage, as she had studied the _dirth'ena enasalin_. The girl had been confused, for the words were familiar but their meaning foreign and so the soul explained. She had been Obris, First Guard to the Lord of the Hollow Spires, one of the elite sorcerers who channeled their magic inwards, to help the body transcend the physical plane. Such lost knowledge she offered in exchange for her death. The bargain was struck and the two elves linked their minds."

"What madness!"

"Madness indeed... It had been so hard to focus then... and frightened little Maial even wondered if her mind had touched that of a demon's or a god's, for the spirit's thoughts were like a mirrored blade, slicing infinitely-small cuts on her sanity, even as she glimpsed eternity in each memory shared."

"_Da'len_..."

"But the more she received, the more she wanted and the more she wanted, the harder she clutched at the ancient elf's soul. Greedy. Young. Maial. Just. Didn't. Know. When. To. Stop. I tried so hard… When the phylactery shattered from the pressure of the two fighting souls, one of them had already rent itself to tatters."

"What are you saying?!"

"Selfish young Maial had cheated the spirit out of her rightful death… had cheated the spirit out of her place in the Beyond."

"You…"

"...Are not Maial. That girl died thirty-nine years ago. I am not Maial and I am hardly Obris, who has been rightly - even if not _properly_ - dead for over eight thousand years. Sanity… clarity… have been slow to come. I've yet to fashion some true identity for myself but based on these slave marks you treasure so, I've been relegated to being '_that Dalish elf_' wherever I go. Perhaps that is enough. I cannot be a champion of lords with all the lords long dead… There is no purpose for Obris in this new world, only for '_that Dalish elf_'.

I believe I'll have my friends call me Dalish."

* * *

><p>'<em>Now, ser, you know I'm not a mage. That'd make me an apostate.<em>'

**9:32 Dragon**

Heavy steps pounded on the cobblestones as the party trudged wearily from inn to inn, all of them overflowing with rowdy farmers.

Ever-mindful of his position as leader, Ian strode ahead of the group. The mercenary's heavy frame looked only slightly bowed under the heavy armor and the large, bulging pack he was carrying.

"What's that make, nine inns?"

Ian looked back with a scowl.

"Ten inns, two taverns and that roadhouse outside the gates."

Laufleid, another of the mercenary band's warriors, walked some steps behind him, small hand locked around the haft of her axe in an unconscious gesture. She was making an almost frightful amount of noise, decked as she was in a suit of dark, battered plate but noise alone wasn't enough to drive the peasant masses out of her way. For a dwarf, Laufleid was unexpectedly slight and the fete-goers were all too busy or far too drunk to make room for a runt, no matter how well armed or armored.

"Are we counting those death traps near the Drakon?" the woman asked with genuine surprise.

"If we're going to discount every place that seems ready to fall apart we can proudly say we've seen no more than a couple."

"I was thinking more of the fact that they were half-sunk into the river already."

"Half-sunk means half-dry.'

"The dry half was half-rotten.'

"Half-rotten is..."

"Ugh. Leave it be, Ian. If I wanted a joker, I'd have talked to Hugo."

Behind the two fighters, Hugo was even then recounting some anecdote. While the boy seemed truly engrossed in the tale he was weaving, Alton and James listened with only half an ear. Instead, Alton, the group's herbalist and poisons expert, kept his sharp gaze pinned on the shifting crowds, mindful of pickpockets, sneaks and other assorted members of his less-than-illustrious profession and, if the slightly strained look on James's face was to be trusted, the archer was nearing the end of his (admittedly short) patience.

Meanwhile, Dalish and Ingvar seemed to have shut out the outside world in an effort to preserve what little energy they had left. They walked mechanically, avoiding passerbies more out instinct - and a fair degree of luck - than any deliberate action.

At a point, a drunk stumbled into Dalish' path, merry and laughing, and dropped a sloppily made crown of wild flowers onto the girl's flaxen locks. The elf spared him a slightly condescending smile before resuming her walk, having dismissed the interruption as both unthreatening and unimportant. Still, after a couple of steps, she gently adjusted the fragrant circlet to rest more properly on her brow.

It was the 7th of Justinian - the day of the king's festival - and many had flocked to Denerim, to celebrate the Archdemon's Defeat in the very place it had occurred.

While the merchants had raised their colourful tents and spread their wares around the Market, performers had set up a garishly painted stage in the Gate District. The breeze rattled all manner of strange wind-chimes that served as accompaniment for those artists unable to afford the services of a minstrel.

As they neared the impromptu theatre, they could catch fragments of what appeared to be a comedy of sorts. A tall, reedy man was offering a clumsy - and unintentionally insulting - marriage proposal to a buxom brunette clothed in an outrageous parody of a noble dress.

The man had run, it seemed, away from an angry drake, leaving his faithful guards to the dragonling's tender (if non-existent) mercies. He had failed the gatekeeper's tests, losing the tower key in an ill-thought gamble and, to top it all, he had accidentally destroyed the rope the lady had painstakingly weaved to escape.

"Oh, they're putting on a play!" Laufleid cheerfully called out and dropped her pack next to Dalish with a hopeful smile.

"I'll only be a moment. Keep a watch on it, will you?" She hardly waited for the mage's reluctant nod before dashing into the crowd, armor clanking as she ran. Hefting the battered leather sack onto her free shoulder, Dalish narrowed her eyes at the dwarf's disappearing form before gazing thoughtfully at each of her companions. Though burdened and weary, they all seemed to have tired of seeking shelter for the night.

She saw that Hugo and James were having one of their silent talks, the ones made of small gestures and slight changes in expression which drove their leader to distraction. Whatever was currently being discussed had Hugo sighing deeply, the young rogue appearing partly amused and wholly resigned.

Pleading with his elder brother never did Hugo any good and Dalish wondered why he still tried. James lengthened his stride and once he had caught up to Ian, the prickly archer fixed their leader with a carefully blank look.

"Ian, the moon stands to rise." James said with the perfect degree of mock sadness. "Our search has been both lengthy and fruitless and success appears unlikely on this eve."

"Our arrival was ill-timed, perhaps, but there are twice as many travelers as last year, James." Ian calmly retorted.

"That may be so. However, I will be acquiring my own accommodations. Perhaps alone I shall be luckier in the endeavor."

Dalish tried to stifle a snort. James's words were perfectly polite and the insult veiled just enough that Ian could do nothing more than narrow his eyes.

"I shall meet you here on the morrow, at noon." the archer finished evenly and, without staying for an answer, nodded his farewells and vanished behind a group of laughing guards.

Ian's eyes caught Dalish' slight, mocking smile and his jaw clenched. For all that they deferred to him in front of the clients, most of company's members were rude, disrespectful things.

Laufleid had run in search of entertainment, James allegedly in search of lodgings and, after his brother's abrupt departure, it seemed that Hugo had decided to slip into the throng of people in search of easy marks.

"Come, Brave Leader, shall we go see what all the fuss is about? The painted lady is looking mighty furious." Dalish asked in a honeyed voice as she stalked towards him.

Ingvar huffed in agreement while Alton nodded and waved absent-mindedly then moved to inspect some glass trinkets a scarred old dwarf had on display.

It was hard to guess whether that was an acknowledgement or a dismissal but Dalish would bet a silver that Alton too would soon fade into the crowds. It would be up to her to speak with any other inn-keepers as it seemed that Ian would receive no more help from either of their rogues tonight.

The mismatched trio slowly made their way closer to the stage where it appeared that the luscious little lady had worked herself into a right state.

"Marriage! Marriage he says! Well, should I tell him what I think?" the spirited young actress was asking and the crowd roared its approval.

"Here's what I think, Kaughan Vendells:

Yer a ponce and a poser and a lousy proposer,

A scoundrel, a schmuck and a sham.

Yer a dunce and a dullard - and a sad, sorry coward,

And a dirty, pervy young man!"

* * *

><p>The play went on for quite some time and evening was falling fast by the time Ian herded his stray sheep away from the lure of the entertainers and towards the southern district.<p>

Not to be outdone by the unwashed masses, all across the royal square and towards Fort Drakon, banners and ribbons of fine, vibrant fabrics had been hung by the nobles' servants. On branches, balconies, poles and rooftops the green-and-white sunburst of the arling of Denerim warred with the Guerrin grey-on-red tower and the royal lions of orange-and-gold. The atmosphere was festive in the well-off neighbourhoods. Lodgings however, were still in short supply.

By contrast, half-rotten timber, dirt and refuse had worked together in turning poorer districts a depressingly uniform brown.

Ian had long given up on finding room and board in the decent part of town and, after a quiet word with Hugo and Alton - their resident thieves - the group had slowly drifted towards the slums. Sunset had come and gone but the filthy alleyways were filled with noise, from screeching fishwives to hollering children and quarreling thugs.

At the dead end of one such back road a faded, dirty looking sign invited travelers to rest at the Naughty Nymph.

Dalish eyed the place distrustfully. The roof was sagging dangerously and whatever coat of paint the walls once had, hung only in tiny flecks around the upper windows. Dried ivy had rooted a home in the masonry and, from there, competed for height with the piles of garbage stacked against the walls. The very same walls couldn't quite cover the racket of the Nymph's drunken patrons, their shouts and jeers and bellowing laughter.

Laufleid shouldered her way to the front of the group.

"Come on, come on." the dwarf encouraged with a grin. "It can't be worse than what Ol' Man Bower made us sleep in back at Pobder's Harbour."

"Bemot's balls, Laufleid. Don't even joke about that." Ingvar said and shoved open the door.

Thick, acrid smoke curled around the doorjamb and the heavy stench of ale, dried sick and unwashed bodies slapped their faces like a particularly foul blanket.

The warrior took a step back then, squaring his shoulders, marched resolutely inside. Laufleid went after, a great deal less confident, muttering about jinxes and bad luck.

With a shared smile Hugo and Alton followed from the shadows. Locking an arm around Ian, Dalish dragged their leader along.

"This cannot be happening. We are falling behind, Noble Commander." the elf teased in a mock worried voice.

"That stench isn't going anywhere, Dalish."

"No, but consider this horrible possibility... Hugo might think the tavern's free game!" Dalish whispered dramatically.

"That's a change from petting his hair each time he slips you a shiny new gem."

"The sweet boy."

"...and pecking his cheek whenever he hands you a jingling little pouch."

"It's not that I mind a bit of spending money but we can't crash in the same place where he's dipped his fingers in everyone's pockets and by June's bouncy buttocks I swear I'll kill someone if we have to search for another inn!" she wailed, waving her hands in emphasis and inadvertently smacking a sleeping drunk off his chair.

The man sagged near the table legs and, after a couple of hacking coughs, continued his sleep on the floor. Sparing him nary a glance, Dalish skillfully led the taller mercenary to the bar. As they approached, Ian could hear their dwarven companion threatening the harried-looking inn-keeper.

"Reserved?! My money ain't good enough for your free beds, eh?" Ingvar was growling. "If I can't 'ave a bed, I'll be bunkin' on the tavern floor, you hear?"

"Settle down, Ingvar." Ian warned, dropping a heavy hand on the man's shoulder. The dwarf turned to scowl at his companion.

"Lay off, Ian. The man's got a problem with renting me a bed... says someone 'reserved rooms' in this pisshole."

The inn-keeper's neck reddened, his shoulders hunched and his face scrunched up, making him look like an angry badger, a bald and sweaty one to boot.

"Now look 'ere, dwarf..." the man began. Looking to nip the fight in the bud, Ian nudged their little mage to the front.

"T'were best if you stepped in _now_, Dalish. Lest we be forced or shamed into leaving this place."

With a laugh and a toss of her braid, the elf plunked her elbows on the bar, giving the angry inn-keeper a lovely view of her cleavage.

"Fair evening, my good man." she greeted. "I apologize for my dwarven friend. He meant no harm. We are all weary from the road and anxious to sit down and spend some coin. With a sharp, enterprising individual such as yourself I'm sure we can come to some understanding..."

Seeing that the woman had the matter well in hand, Ian nodded to Ingvar and after signaling a serving wench, vanished in search of chairs. Dalish would charm the man or bribe him and, sooner or later, those reservations would be lost and free rooms would be produced. The girl wasn't his first choice when someone needed convincing but, as usual, the rogues had vanished to pinch coppers instead of helping persuade a target.

Thanking the wench for the ale, Ian knocked his mug against Ingvar's and raised it for a large swig. When he put it down, Hugo was sitting, slumped, on a chair by his side. The boy took a careful sip of his own drink and shuddered at the taste.

"Dog piss." was the boy's ruthless verdict.

After another deep draught, Ingvar nodded.

"Hmm, indeed. 'Tis better not to question where it came from. Still, I say we've all likely had enough of water. At least for a while."

The rogue's face twisted as he recalled the incident.

"Merciful Andraste, I thought I'd drown for sure in that river." he said with a shudder. "It took us four evenings to mend my leather coat."

"I was more worried about your head, daft man."

"Tch! We had Dalish' magic and Alton's potions for that, didn't we?"

The thud of armored boots made them look up from their conversation. Armed with a couple of mugs in each hand, Laufleid plunked down beside them.

"Speaking of our resident elves, they missin' already?" she asked.

Hugo shrugged.

"Alton was upstairs, last I saw him, fiddling with a lock."

Ian's hands clenched around his mug.

"The elves don't worry me."

Laufleid huffed a laugh.

"You couldn't have missed how James needled him again." she said, raising a brow at Hugo's suddenly blank face. Ian scowled at the drink as if it had personally offended him.

"While Alton's pilfering coins..."

"Or rifling through ladies' unmentionables' Ingvar wryly muttered.

"And Dalish is securing lodgings, James is probably threatening some poor soul out of his home - yet again." he groused, silently cursing the need to shelter Hugo's degenerate brother. He could have looked past the other's deceitful, selfish nature had the archer not taken every opportunity to slight him. While the brothers were both fond of playing tricks on the party, James's pranks had an added, cruel edge.

Hugo snorted. "Forget about James, you know as well as I do that I always leave payment in my brother's place."

"Yeah.' said Laufleid 'Though I bet your poor heart dies a bit inside every time you're forced to give money instead of stealing it."

"Cracks and crumbles." Ingvar nodded.

"Mayhaps he wakes up in cold shivers' Ian added 'desperately clutching at half-empty purse strings."

"I'll have you know my purse-strings are never half-empty."

"Not unless Dalish bats her lashes prettily and promises you a kiss."

The boy tried to fight back a blush.

"And you wonder why she's not here with you fools."

Laufleid barked a hollow laugh.

"Hugo. We've always wondered why she _is_ here with us."

Ian hummed his agreement as he downed some more of the murky swill. She was an enigma, their little Dalish elf. There was an arrogance about the girl, Ian mused, an almost instinctive condescension, which - had it not been tempered by her light-hearted teasing - would have rubbed most anyone wrong. Perhaps that could be attributed to her being Dalish... or a mage… or both. He snorted. An odd mage too, who eschewed travelling robes in favour of a heavy hauberk and mail leggings and fought with twin swords, wielded with some level of proficiency.

A thump followed by cheerful laughter alerted them to Dalish' coming. Behind her, a burly man was cupping his jaw and groaning, but still looking mighty satisfied. The mage sauntered to the table and then perched, crouching, on a chair. Letting her gaze roam over the steadily growing pile of empty mugs, she teased her companions.

"I see you've all started properly enjoying the evening."

"There's nothing proper about this ...hogwash." Hugo replied, swirling his glass meaningfully. Laufleid swiped it from his hand and took a large gulp.

"You just haven't had 'nough of it." she said, draining the cup and laughing, before handing it back with a wink.

Hugo tried to cover a petulant scowl while Dalish quickly played the go-between. After such a tiring day, she hadn't the patience to deal with a sulky, slightly-drunk thief.

"Peace, peace. I'll amend my words! Ahem!" clearing her throat, she affected a dramatic pose and said in a quivering falsetto.

"Fair met, kind sers!"

"An' lady!" Laufleid piped up.

"And dear, delightful, darling lady! I see you've all started enjoying the evening, as well as can be expected in such a place."

"Sure, 'ave, Dalish. Sure 'ave. Some sooner than others." The dwarven woman replied, as she rummaged in her pack for a deck of cards. "Not up to anything elfy tonight, then?"

Dalish stiffened at that, lips curling disdainfully, but the look passed before any of the others could catch it. She dismissed the question with a wave and an airy laugh.

"Certainly not, dear friend. Now, deal me in."


	2. Part One, Chapter I: Wicked Grace

**CHAPTER I**: Wicked Grace

**9:32 Dragon, 7th Justinian**

The hours passed swiftly as the group got into the game. Coins rose in little copper mounds around the scattered mugs and glasses. Ingvar had fallen asleep with his head pillowed on a stained, scruffy old satchel.

His winnings lay untouched though Hugo occasionally glanced at them and sighed. Whenever that happened, Dalish' nails tapped sharply on his wrist guard and the elf favored him with a knowing smile. It helped distract him from stealing but didn't do much to draw his focus back on the game. He'd be left staring at her, eyes roving over her features, temples, jaw and lips; he yearned for the courage to simply reach out and touch.

His fingers twitched on the cards. He imagined letting them trail down her cheeks, pressing them against her lips. She'd open her mouth, slightly, and look at him — no, her eyes would be closed. It was nearly impossible to imagine them clouded with lust. It hurt but he'd only ever seen them narrowed in anger or concentration, half-closed in boredom or disdain, twinkling in mirth; he'd never dared look whenever she brushed her lips against his cheek in thanks, afraid of what he might see.

Slowly, reluctantly, he forced his attention back to the game. It was Laufleid's turn but the dwarf hadn't noticed. She was fingering the cards' ragged edges, seemingly lost in thought. At length, she set them face down and loudly cleared her throat.

"I got a tip, Ian."

The man had been pointing to a couple of drunk guards at the bar who were harassing a young elven servant. After whispering something in Dalish' ear, he turned to ask.

"Reliable?"

Laufleid shrugged, tugging on one of her braids as she spoke. "Reliable enough… for Carta. There are a couple of Lyrium runs where the Carta needs some extra muscle - a lot of extra muscle."

"Carta." Ian spat, "We're not discussing it, Laufleid."

Dalish on the other hand looked interested.

"Come now, Ian. Mere proximity to the city guard can't have infected you with a sudden case of morals!" she scolded playfully and Hugo couldn't stifle a laugh. A deal with the Carta was risky but it also meant good money. Ian was a fool if he thought they'd pass on the deal offhand. He eagerly leaned forward,

"How much are we talking about?"

"Sixty gold each."

He whistled quietly. "What's the catch?"

"It's supposed to be a chain thing. Four runs: Hathevale in the West Hills, Fender's Mill for Jader, the Stone Barrows near Halamshiral and Lydes."

Dalish raised a brow. "Orlais?"

It had been a while since such an opportunity had presented itself. For the past couple of months they'd been stuck in Ferelden, protecting petty merchants and killing the occasional bear that had wandered too close to some backwater village. The pay was low, the tasks tedious and the company left a lot to be desired.

"It certainly.."

Ian cut her off. "Out of the question. We're not smugglers. And we don't deal with the Carta."

The mage's eyes widened dramatically. "Oh, you should write it all down in our charter, Brave Leader, lest we forget again: will perform assassinations. Will not deliver goods."

"We're not assassins either, Dalish."

Hugo snorted and Laufleid covered her chuckles by raising the half-full mug for a drink.

"We are bounty hunters."

"It's not the same thing."

Dalish looked at him blankly. "We deliver the bounty as requested. Dead or Alive."

"They're public bounties, Dalish."

"Except when they're not." Hugo muttered, sharing with Laufleid a grin. The little dwarf added her own two coppers.

"The Potts from Amaranthine, Ian."

Dalish smirked. "Remember the elder daughter? The one who simply wouldn't let herself be caught?"

"Oh, she was that bitch who stabbed James in the shoulder." Hugo exclaimed, recalling the incident.

Laufleid nudged him good-naturedly. "To be fair, he _had_ just shot her brother."

Dalish' lips twitched. It was the shortest smile, vicious and mocking. "Oh, he was a feisty one." she said, rolling her shoulders to relieve some tension.

Hugo inhaled sharply. The stifling air had lent her skin a faint sheen and made her wiry hair frizz at the tips. Her eyes were unfocused but there was a wild gleam in them, cruel and very familiar. He felt a spike of desire shoot straight to his loins and tried to cover it up with a joke.

"Pff! the little menace should have stayed put when we told him to."

Dalish' eyes sparkled with laughter. "Oh, where is your heart, sweet Hugo. Would you not do the same for James?"

"I certainly wouldn't rush an archer with a hatchet and expect him to ignore it."

"Well, Ian certainly solved the issue of having one sibling outlive the other. Tell me Ian, do you remember whose head you crushed first: was it the teen or the pretty little bride-to-be?"

"Enough." the man growled, thumping the table with a mailed fist. "It's not.."

The elf wouldn't hear it.

"It's every second bounty we get from Alton's contacts, Ian. Come, drink some more. You're spoiling our mood with these… odd ideas."

"We dispose of troublemakers, Dalish. We don't support criminals organisations or encourage deadly addictions."

"You're far too old to be developing scruples, Ian." the mage chided. "They are the province of wide-eyed farm-boys who want to make the world a better place, not grizzled old mercenaries who must earn coin."

With a muttered curse, Ian pushed to his feet. He had only just shouldered his pack when he felt a light hand on his arm. There was a serious expression on Dalish' face, mixed with something akin to pity.

"You might have been a good man, Ian, had things been different. But this company needs a smart leader, not a virtuous one."

He shrugged her off and sneered.

"And you'd follow anyone, wouldn't you Dalish? You tease and smile and at the end of the day, for a couple of gold, you'd slit anyone's throat."

Her lips curved in a thin, mirthless smile.

"We all make compromises."

He snorted and turned to leave. "I wonder what you'd do for a leader you actually respected." he whispered without looking back.

There was a pause, as if the question had surprised her and then a laugh, light and airy, completely at odds with her previous demeanor.

"I would probably be a terrible bore. Even you wouldn't wish to see such a thing. Goodnight, Ian."

* * *

><p>It was some hours before dawn when Hugo and Dalish left the Naughty Nymph. They walked with a purposeful stride through the darkened streets. In their profession it was a useful skill - to be able to look as though it were unhealthy for others to stop you - and both mercenaries had long practiced the art of looking terribly tough and terribly busy.<p>

In due course, they stopped in front of a two-story house of tan stone, the smallest in a row of elegant-looking homes, right on the edge of the rich hillside district.

Hugo strode confidently up the path and knocked three times on the heavy oaken door. A moment later James opened it widely and, upon seeing his companions, stepped aside with a slight, mocking bow.

"Dalish. Brother dearest. Welcome to my humble abode."

The woman sidled inside and looked around curiously. The hallway was small but clean. Pottery filled the shelves that lined the cream-colored walls and three wooden tables housed an assortment of interesting baubles. James had picked a charming little place.

"_Your_ humble abode, James?" she playfully quipped.

"If the owner was so kind as to let me borrow it." James answered with a smirk and a shrug. After locking the door, he turned in time to see Hugo slip something under his cloak. He tried to stifle a laugh. His brother was so predictable at times.

"Please, do make yourselves at home."

"...Is the owner..." Hugo started, then trailed off, knowing better than to accuse his brother outright, but anxious for reassurance.

"_Ah,_" James thought "_Predictable indeed. His brother the thief... the morally upright sibling._"

"Rest easy, little brother, the man - and all his meddlesome servants - are sleeping. Alton has helped me tuck the little angels in."

"Ah, have you two been testing another one of Alton's airborne concoctions?" Dalish asked and, setting the vase she had been carefully appraising back on the mantel, sauntered towards the sitting room.

"Meddlesome servants? Were you seen?" Dalish heard the thief ask as she closed the door.

In the parlor, their herbalist was nestled inside a large armchair, reading from a thin book with black covers. When James approached with two glasses of wine, Dalish was struck by what a warm and pleasant a picture they portrayed, especially for being two strangers in someone else's home.

"Dalish, Hugo." Alton greeted them, before nodding his thanks to James and taking a small sip of the amber-colored wine. When it appeared that neither of their temporary hosts were in a mood for conversation, Dalish moved to explore the room. Meanwhile, Hugo made his way to the small dining table where a pot of stew was cooling in a large, earthen bowl.

"Dinner smells wonderful, Alton! Or is it breakfast by now? Regardless… many thanks." he praised and the elf spared him a slight smile.

"Beef, carrots and potatoes… garlic and thyme… An apple pie is in the oven. It'll still be a while till it's done but... the owner's pantry was generous."

"We should make sure to properly reward him, then." Hugo commented, as he spooned the thick broth into his place.

Alton hummed noncommittally and returned to his reading. After the very late supper - or the very early breakfast -, as they lounged in front of the fire, Hugo mentioned their newest assignment.

"...for sixty gold each."

"And?"

"Ian disapproved." added Dalish with a yawn.

James scoffed and allowed his head to fall back. It bumped against Alton's shoulder and the elf shifted to accommodate it. "Predictable. Does this mean he's forbidden us from accepting?"

"He'll bark and whine and we all know we're doing it in the end." was Hugo's prediction "So we might want to pass by Mother Yvette… We're going to Orlais."

* * *

><p><strong>Next Chapter:<strong> Providing for Those in Need;

I hope to have the next few chapters out sooner. They're outlined up to chapter 5 but with the whole family sick I've had literally **no** time to write. :(


	3. Chapter II: Providing for Those in Need

**AN: **Happy holidays, dear readers. It's the season to be jolly… and my happy mood meant that finishing this chapter was really hard. I suppose I should warn you that there might some... slight... sadness ahead.

On the upside, our male hero makes an appearance! :)

**Edit** (06/01/15): I can't believe we finally get to know which tattoo corresponds to which god! _Thank you Matt Rhodes! _(Now, of course, I had to edit the mention of Dalish's _vallaslin_. I didn't want to change how she looks ingame so her blood markings honor Dirthamen instead of Elgar'nan.)

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER II: <strong>Providing for Those in Need

**9:32 Dragon, 10th Justinian**

The whetstone sang low, harsh notes as Dalish ran it over her falcata's curving blade. Orange flashed across the sharpened obsidian as the woman turned the blade this way and that, inspecting her work by the light of the campfire.

The single-edged sword had been a lucky find from a long abandoned smugglers' den. Prone as he was to dig into every nook and cranny, Hugo had stumbled upon a rotting wooden chest half-submerged in a muddy pool. Stuck under it and covered in the same foul, pungent muck, the nameless blade had been left to rust.

Hugo's infatuation had worked to Dalish's advantage and while the obsidian falcata wasn't the priciest object he'd gifted her with, it was one of the few she treasured.

Faint runes encircled the hook-shaped grip, a minor enchantment to keep the metal from rusting - these were of little interest. She thanked the humans' greed. Had the metal been rarer or the enchantment stronger, the smugglers would never have abandoned this priceless memento of her people.

Parallel to the fuller one could still - though barely - discern the old elvhen words '_for each offense, one strike; for each strike, one life_'.

It was a phrase the smiths had begun to carve on their swords as the war worsened. Under Andruil's banner her Lord had led elvhen warriors bearing such blades; and they had ever so dutifully lifted them against former kin. An elite few had even honored their swords by achieving the perfection required - a life for every strike - and Obris among them.

'_Sahlin, na'falen banal'him. Na'lethallen banal'him._' Andruil had decreed. '_Dar'durgen mala vhenan, mala suledin nadas._' Dalish remembered how cruel her order had seemed when they had yet to meet their kinsmen on the field of battle, when they had known nothing of spilling a brother's blood before he spilled their own, when traitors hadn't borne the faces of fathers and sons.

The hunts of the lords Iriel of the Hollow Spires and Allam of Blackarrow Keep became legend and, oath-bound to Lord Iriel as First Guard, Obris had proudly walked at the vanguard. The faithful wrote songs of their glorious chases: fiery walls to trap the fleeing prey, storms of ash and lightning to daze it, swords to feed its blood into the earth. Dalish smiled sadly in remembrance.

The enemy had decried their viciousness in battle but it was not hard for a soldier to become a monster. Not when one's God had damned the quarry from the start: _Na'lethallen banal'him_ - your clansmen have become nothing.

When one saw their prey as less than a person, one's conscience could so easily fall asleep. Shape mattered little. After all, did slaves not walk on two legs and wear the faces of elves under their brands?

War became an excuse to perform any and all acts of savagery one could think of and Obris herself had kept a grisly string of runed finger-bones, one for each traitor caught under the Goddess' banner - three-hundred seventeen lyrium-etched tokens of pride.

It was a bitter thought - frequently smothered - that this new body held little of her former strength and only wisps of the magic she used to call to her command. Dalish wryly mused that it was almost fitting in a way, to wield a nameless soldier's sword when her own skills had fallen so low and were sold for coin instead of loyalty or devotion.

The mage scoffed as her eyes trailed over her sleeping companions. To enforce the code by which she had lived was a fool's errand. Loyalty. Such a lofty principle had no place in this strange world she had been brought into, where most elves subsisted as slaves or servants to the humans - where they lived harsh, pitifully short lives. The Dalish were as savages but ones supposedly devoted to clan and family - as long as one fit into their designated roles. When one did not... people like Maial were cast off. Mages.

Dalish was unsure when magic had become an optional instead of an intrinsic trait but powerful mages should have been treasured. Instead, the talents which should have elevated them far above the others saw them shunned. A Keeper and a First were allowed, a single master-apprentice pair. The elf shook her head at the absurdity of it.

If she hadn't found sanctuary with a mercenary group, her arcane skills - the ones she prided herself on most - would have seen her branded as an apostate and locked away; and this quasi-universal ban on free magic was enforced by nearly all the servants of the human God... this Maker. The madness of this world.

Her mirthless chuckles drew Hugo's attention. They had been assigned the same watch through luck of the draw or the boy's welcome meddling. In truth, most of the group didn't wish to mingle with the other warriors. There were eighteen of them in all, mercenaries hired by the Carta to protect the cargo.

Jumping from his perch on top of some crates, Hugo made his way to the western edge of the camp.

"This is too big." he whispered to Dalish as he neared. "It's like we're looking to get caught."

The woman looked up and shrugged.

"Some of the men are saying that the King's decided to come down hard on the Carta. A new agreement with Orzammar or some such."

"Pff! Even if they drive them down for a while, they can't keep it tidy forever."

The elf favored him with a grin. "'Tis politics."

"I get it. I do… The merchant houses are happy which makes the nobles happy. No whining to the human king so the Crown's happy… Everyone's just one big ball of happiness."

"Except the dear Templars" Dalish added with a tight-lipped smile."who suddenly have to make do with the official allotment."

_What noble servants this human God has_, she thought, _violent, lyrium-addled wretches who couldn't sense a mage if she brushed against them._

She could have excused their random acts of cruelty had these holy warriors displayed any true skill in the detection of arcane energy.

In Andruil's own priesthood might was right and no one was foolish enough to challenge a high cleric without a great deal of magical and physical talent... or the backing of a powerful patron. The Templars however had dismissed her as harmless the moment they had caught sight of her steel hauberk.

"Yeah. Poor bastards get antsy and demand enough to tide them over. ...Carta's more than happy to make one big shipment before lying low."

"And we get paid extra for the rush…" Dalish would have suspected the Carta of double-dealing if she hadn't seen the smugglers' planned route and the dangers it posed. They were, even now, camped in a narrow caldera some miles off the North Road - and this was no naturally occurring feature.

Through a paragon's cleverness the dwarves had learnt to twist the molten core to suit their purposes, redirecting the lava flows to provide warmth and protection across the vast stretches of empty road spanning the length of their underground empire. The histories she had read spoke of the Deep Roads as having been abandoned during the First Blight. Slowly the dwarves' clever machineries must have fallen into disrepair.

She figured that between the mounting pressure and the Darkspawn's careless digging, the magma must have broken free of the stone pipes and simply surged upwards. The caldera south-east of Highever was just one of the unnatural valleys dotting Ferelden and eastern Orlais, an unwanted exit point for the Deep Roads.

Only the extremely greedy or reckless - or both, in the Carta's case - still braved the old highways as even after the Blight, Darkspawn still lurked in these tunnels and the ground's integrity had been severely weakened.

"Sixty gold each, yeah..." For all his greed, Hugo looked as unsettled as she felt, at the thought of braving the tainted darkness of the underground ruins.

* * *

><p><strong>9:32 Dragon, 28nd Justinian<strong>

Lydes was in sight. Its walls peeked around tall, weather beaten rocks and above barren hillocks. From afar, it held none of the majesty of other Orlesian cities; the inevitable result of having sprung from a dwarven trading post many ages past.

During their eighteen days in the Deep Roads the guards' numbers had been cut down to half. Ian had not forgotten their insistence in taking this commision and had ordered that they walk with the vanguard.

It was a foolish order, born out of slighted pride, and one the smugglers quickly accepted. The party hadn't been ready for it. None of them had any real experience navigating underground - even their dwarves had been born topside - and several of their members worked best from the rear.

Alton had fallen first, to a Hurlock's blade. The Darkspawn had been a scout to a party almost as large as their own and ensuing battle had seen five other mercenaries dead. James had been cut down on the second day - a silent kill they had noticed only after walking straight into the ambush.

On the fourth, Laufleid had been shoved off a walkway by one of their own rampaging brontos. "Please, help me!" she had managed to scream, before she dropped into the glowing inferno below.

The dwarf's death was enough to have Ian recant his order but it was too little, too late.

Those of them left were all injured, dirty and tired and, in Hugo's case, weakened by a Genlock's last blow. Dalish had patched him up as best she could but she was no herbalist and her hastily-prepared antidotes hadn't helped in the least; he was pale, sweaty but cold to the touch and his speech was starting to slur. She cursed under her breath and held tighter onto the boy's slumped body.

"Hold on, child." she whispered, stroking his shivering arm. The young man mumbled something in reply, a senseless jumble of words which made her heart clench. As they walked, she pushed small tendrils of rejuvenating magic into the boy.

It didn't help that the dwarves had refused to help, saying the boy was tainted and as good as dead. The elf refused to believe it, even as her own magic recoiled from the poison infecting his blood.

Dalish' eyes narrowed. It mattered not. Justice would see both Ian and the Carta punished soon enough. Having no magic of their own, the others hadn't sensed the ripples in the Veil. A group of Templars had cast nearby, likely some spell for enhancing their powers. It was not the action of people prepared for an amiable exchange.

"Help me get him up the stairs." she demanded of a nearby warrior, pointing to the left. An ancient guard tower watched over the Deep Roads entrance. The ruined stairs were difficult to manage even with the dwarf's help in carrying the youth. The boy was twice her weight and two heads taller and both she and the dwarf were sweating by the time they had reached the half-collapsed top landing.

"Leave us."

Surprised perhaps at the rude dismissal, the mercenary spat and shook his head, cursing as he descended the tricky stone steps. Dalish paid him no mind, unpacking blankets and piling them in a corner.

As soon as the warrior was out of sight, with a rush of magic she forced the rubble to shift and roll towards their makeshift pallet, completely hiding them from sight. When she turned back to look at him, Hugo seemed nearly lucid.

"...You've got me... all to yourself..." he tried to joke, though the rasping, halting words revealed his pain.

"And I shall make the most of it." Dalish promised, running her fingers through his hair.

The screams started at nightfall.

* * *

><p><strong>9:36 Dragon<strong>

He had wandered as he often did, where the sorrow gathered thickest.

It was a guilty pleasure, seeing the grief of others. It did not relieve him of his own burdens but for some time his soul would be attuned to another's agony and his own would would be momentarily forgotten. It was like huddling in a blanket of woven nails, kind and comforting, painful and piercing all at once.

His feet took him now towards an old tower where spirits re-enacted a short but brutal battle: human Templars against dwarven warriors. The combatants seemed mismatched until one noticed the glowing crates of lyrium which even as memories sang beautifully in the Fade.

He watched for a time as the humans charged the unsuspecting dwarves, fought and murdered them… and then as the vicious dance began anew.

On a whim he looked up at the dwarven tower, where dusty vines trailed up the ruined walls. Their thorny coils snaked high into upper arches and it was only by chance that he sensed two other spirits, at the very top. Sick curiosity bade him discover their own role in this tragedy.

It was another mismatched pair that he found huddled in a corner: a sickly young human and a sharp-faced Dalish warrior.

"What's happening?!" the boy was asking fretfully, his speech halting and oddly slurred.

"The Templars have likely decided to engage in some more aggressive negotiations than usual."

His brows rose. The elven woman seemed strangely unsurprised.

"I... don't..."

"Our contractors are being disposed of." came the warrior's careless reply.

"Ingvar...the men... Ian..."

Though the boy couldn't see it, the woman's face grew stony. "They are not our concern anymore." The words were clipped, final.

"He's our... leader."

"He ceased to be our leader when he demanded that we remain with the vanguard even after Alton's death, after your brother's."

"But… all those men... down there... are we... betraying them..."

They were both silent for a time and he wondered if the play had run its course. At length, the woman answered and he was surprised to hear that her tone was light and airy, indifferent.

"It's a betrayal only if it isn't expected. And if they haven't expected it, more fools they."

Both he and the boy started at the callous reply.

"Why... didn't you... run then?!"

"And leave you alone? Hugo, you fiend! You'd think me so heartless?" the woman asked with mock offense. Her lighthearted teasing startled a laugh out of the sickly youth, but quickly the joyful notes soured, chuckles trailing into a racking cough.

"I think...I'm... dying..."

A breath, then an agreement. "Yes."

"So why..."

"'Tis a bit late to start questioning me, dear child..." the woman joked, though her hands shook lightly as they kept the human's weary form from pitching forward. Dark veins stood out against the sweaty, greying skin; the Blight seemed to have completely taken hold of the boy. Even now, his head was was cocked to the side, as though he was listening to something far away.

"Their screams are so loud... they almost drown out the words."

"Words?"

"...They speak... but the words dig too deep... and I can't hear... what they say..." he rasped. There was a plea there - unspoken, desperate. He was all but begging the elf to understand, to somehow stop the taint from digging its claws into him.

"If I... listen too hard... it... I... I almost can't come..."

"Whose... Nevermind. It matters little. Hush. Would you like me to sing a song? I've set up a ward. They will not hear us. ...Hugo? ...Hugo?"

No answer was forthcoming and the woman's arms tightened around the dying boy. She blinked quickly to push away the tears.

"A prayer then…" she whispered furtively "And you should feel honored to hear it… _Andruil, blessed mother of the hunt, wielder of Lin'nehn, keeper of Irshal and Feynen, bearer of the twenty-two writs; You whose arrow flies truest, whose prey is mightiest and deeds most worthy of song, this faithful one prays to you..._" the woman was saying, voice raspy with grief.

He frowned. Honored indeed... How could this Dalish elf know of the old rites? Could more of Andruil's relics have survived than he was aware of? It bore investigating. Her brand was done in the style of a certain clan… if he could but remember which. Odd though that the _vallaslin_ carried a faint resemblance to the marks Dirthamen's slaves used to wear and she invoked Andruil instead.

As he left the tower, he could still hear snatches of the woman's prayer. "_A hunter is falling today… though he is not of the people...his quarry was often set by the faithful… his blades struck in defense of the faithful… his trophies were brought to the faithful… my Lady, find mercy for his spirit..._"

He closed his eyes. Foolish.

* * *

><p><strong>Sahlin na'falen banal'him. Na'lethallen banal'him. Dar'durgen mala vhenan, mala suledin nadas.<strong> - Now, your friends have become nothing. Your clansmen have become nothing. Your hearts must be of stone and you must endure.

This was written based on my (admittedly limited) knowledge of DA's elven language. If anyone wants to discuss elven grammar with me I'd be more than happy to write back. :)

Also, yay, Solas. And yes... not naming him was painful (but intentional).


	4. Part One, Chapter III: A New Playground

**AN: **Hello readers new and old. Happy New Year! :) Now, some of the things we routinely do or hear about in the game might sound a bit harsher in a story so **warning**: mildly disturbing descriptions ahead.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER III<strong>: A New Playground

**9:32 Dragon, 29th Justinian**

Deft fingers slipped under the battered armor's faulds. They came back dirty, bloody and holding a tiny, jingling pouch which was almost carelessly added to the growing pile by Dalish's feet. She worked swiftly, methodically, as if she was merely sorting the game after a lengthy hunt.

The Templars, it seemed, had only been interested in their ill-gotten lyrium stores. Most of the smugglers were still carrying gold, trinkets and well-made or enchanted weapons. The deaths of her contractors had left her a wealthier woman - if she could pawn the spoils before any authorities took notice.

A flash of red and gold under a caved-in helm caught the elf's eye. She debated about letting it go. Then, filthy hands groped for the desired weapon until they finally grasped a small hatchet. An instant's concentration brought magic surging through her muscles and the axe came down on the dwarf's neck. Her hands were steady as they chopped at the livid flesh; once, twice, three times and the head rolled, dislodging the bent helmet in the process.

Carefully she teased the ear free until a beautiful hoop earring rested in her palm. A dark ruby dangled under, glinting like fresh-spilled blood. She smiled, satisfied, and ripped it off.

"_My thanks, ser dwarf._" she muttered, and dropped the earring in one of her pockets. This one she'd keep.

As she rounded the broken remains of a cart, the little elf stumbled upon Ian's body, collapsed over a charred stump. Her breathing became laboured.

There was sadness there, in the sudden pressure on her chest, and an odd pain, completely unexpected. It was as when one found the perfect blossom in a lonely field... the one already stepped on, delicate petals crushed, stem mangled underfoot.

She hadn't thought much of the human, not when he'd tried to be noble and certainly not when he had allowed his morals to interfere with business. She'd sneered and taken him for a fool. They all had. There was no need to coddle them, she'd thought.

And in his pride, Ian had reshaped himself to be the harsh, uncaring taskmaster his men might have admired. It was a forced, unnatural change. One prompted, she assumed, by the disdain they had made little effort in hiding.

She might have forgiven him this weakness. But they had pleaded to be sent to the rear of the party, be given time to mourn Alton's death. This new Ian, the stern faced but wild-eyed man clinging to his new-found power like a bloated leech stuck to a haemorrhaging wound, this man would not be moved.

A flick of her fingers and fire surrounded the corpse. Sweat beaded on her skin and mingled with the angry tears running down her cheeks. It was hard to direct the spell without a proper focus but she persisted. Ian didn't deserve the honor of a funeral but to assuage her own guilt, neither would she leave him to rot. Let the flames be his coffin, the winds his grave and let her be done with it all.

* * *

><p><strong>9:32 Dragon, 1st Solace<strong>

When the Iron Bull threw open the tavern's door, the place was already jam-packed with noisy, lively drunks. Still, as he advanced the crowds parted around him, eyeing the massive Qunari with suspicion and a healthy dose of fear - an expected reaction which made him preen.

Something else was bothering him though: there seemed to be no free tables for his Chargers to sit at. Annoyed, he huffed as he scanned the room.

Three humans in worn cotton tunics passed something under a table. There were coal tracks on the elbows of their cheap garments. Sprays of red had dried on the cloth, too light to be blood. One of them had rolled up his sleeves but it did little to cover the singe marks. Kitchen help. Probably not important enough to look into.

A couple of clean-shaven youngsters in ill-fitting shirts pawed at the gaudily dressed women in their arms. They laughed loudly and drank from bottles instead of glasses. Noblemen's sons going incognito. Going to get themselves robbed blind for a cheap fuck, more like. Not his problem.

It might have been worthwhile to find a spot next to the hooded dwarves near the windows but the tables were taken by some surly-looking humans he'd pegged as off-duty guards. Not the people he wanted to start a fight with tonight - at least not over chairs.

There, at the very back, a six-man table housing a lone merc. Interesting. It'd have to do, he decided and strode confidently up to his target.

"Well met, stranger. My men and I could use some of these seats, if you don't mind the company."

The little warrior raised his head and Bull found himself surprised. The shapeless brown hood had hid the elven woman's face, but she was clearly young and pleasant look at. How had she managed to keep this table all to herself with such a rowdy bunch of revelers around?

She seemed to be inspecting him too and her mouth quirked in a lopsided smile.

"Since I shuppose a refusal'd see me ousted from my own place, please sher, do go ahead." she offered, slurring her words and carelessly gesturing to the empty chairs. "I do resherve the right to knock you out if bothered."

What a bold drunk! Turning the rickety chair around, Bull straddled it and leaned forward.

"Fighting words, those." he challenged with a grin.

"I shuppose I might 'ave been more polite about it but such free… frivoloush concerns seem to have left me" the little warrior agreed with a serious mien, then shrugged, letting her gaze skim over the empty glasses. "around the same time I finished my sheventh, eighth... ninth drink. Oh, my."

He laughed. "Must have been some cheap swill, for you to last a whole nine drinks."

"Sherved their purpose, didn't they?" she countered with a silly grin. "'B'sidesh, it's my last night of freedom. 'Morrow morning I'm back to looking for a job."

After flagging down a serving boy, Bull settled himself more comfortably.

"What job would that be?"

"Jack of all tradesh, I sh'pose… S'all anyone wants these daysh. All merc companiesh have their own men. No one lookin' to hire a knife-ear, no one looking to hire a woman... _no one_ _looking to hire an aposhtate, shame old shite. Mosht honoured of my Houshe and now I'm chasin' work like a fucking shlave…_" she finished, switching to elvhen partway through her drunken rant.

"Can't say I blame them, elf. You're a pretty scrawny chit."

Dalish snorted. "Showsh what you know, Qunari. Big guy like you and I bet I could shtill win an arm-wreshtling contest. Just. Like. That." she finished, punctuating her claim with magic-infused thumps to the table. The sturdy wood gave way under the last thump, and the whole thing fell in tiny splinters at their feet.

She blinked at the wood pile slowly, dazedly, then looked down, letting the hood's shadow cover her face as her cheeks heated in embarrassment.

A shout came from the bar. "Hey! You're paying for that."

Bull held his mug protectively as he poked the splinters with steel boot - none of them larger than a palm - then barked a short laugh.

"Shit. That's a nice party trick." He stuck his arm out in greeting. "The Iron Bull."

The woman curled her thin fingers around two of his own. Whatever monstrous strength she'd displayed mere moments ago was absent from her dainty handshake.

"Dalish."

"That your name or origin?"

"Yesh." the little elf cheekily replied.

"Hmph. Make that about your job and you almost sound Qunari… In fact, why don't you come to the brown brick house on Rue des Chevaliers when you sober up. I might have a job for you, Dalish."

* * *

><p><strong>9:33 Dragon<strong>

She had joined the Bull's Chargers in the end and found them different from the other mercenary bands she'd been part of: camaraderie was encouraged, but not forced; privacy was any member's right instead of a leader's privilege - though she suspected the Iron Bull knew a fair share of everyone's dirty little secrets - and there were few jobs where more than ten of the Chargers would be called to work together.

In truth, it was hard to imagine a job where all their specialist skills would be needed. Instead, Bull had assigned them to three or four-man cells which for the most part operated independently of each-other.

Dalish sometimes wondered whether assigning her to Grim, Dandy and Skinner's cell had been a lucky occurrence or a carefully considered bribe. Though loud and brash, Bull was an astute leader - a requirement, she thought, for his position as a spy.

Their unit worked surprisingly well together. Grim, a young blonde warrior, was her favourite companion in spite of his ...unfortunate race. The taciturn human was rarely cruel but always savage, even if the job didn't necessarily demand it. Skinner encouraged this behaviour whenever humans were involved, delighting in any chance to cut down some 'shems' and Dandy, their scatterbrained infiltration expert, could always be corrupted with the promise of a chase. That Bull had labeled their team as bounty hunters was a bonus.

When nearly all missions involved a manhunt, work became a means of catharsis.

Their targets ranged from petty criminals to disgraced agents of any of the many players of the Grand Game. She supposed that many people might have found comfort in thinking about the marks' wicked deeds and putting an end to their myriad sins. But Dalish had long stopped entertaining thoughts of her own righteousness. Goodness may have been a quality the Maker's children still aspired to, but her own gods no longer offered any guidance.

Not that Grim, Skinner or Dandy were models of goodness.

The raven-haired elf would frequently berate Dalish for being too easy-going about the 'plight of their people' and then expound on her newest plan for getting Bull to authorize more missions against 'shemlen filth'. Dandy's triggers were more subtle; it was not a gaping wound that had scarred the pretty Orlesian, but a thousand tiny cuts against which she'd had no defense. When she lashed out, it was never to get even, but rather to pay things back threefold. Similarly, there was a darkness about Grim's spirit, an old, unspoken pain that had been left to fester and there was nothing he hated more than seeing this ugliness reflected in another's heart.

However, all things considered, Dalish greatly approved of her teammates and their honest brutality. After the Deep Roads, these racist, spiteful, vicious companions were as close as she could come to being friends with anyone and she silently thanked the Iron Bull for his thoughtfulness… this little kindness she would have so readily sneered at before.

But Bull's attitude towards his Chargers worked. They were all loyal to him and, sometimes, her own loyalty seemed unfaked.


	5. Part One, Chapter IV: Come One, Come All

**CHAPTER IV**: Come One, Come All

**9:40 Dragon, 3rd Kingsway**

The thin hairs on Bull's neck rose as magic brushed against him, familiar but wrong.

"Fuck." he muttered, sparing a glance behind him. The air quivered and a translucent shield formed around his body but Dalish couldn't yet be seen. As always, his mind shied away from the thought of being encased in a magical bubble. He felt as though he was back in the desert, trapped in a storm during the blistering midday heat.

"Company incoming, Krem." he shouted and his Second edged to the right.

"Saw it, chief." the boy acknowledged as he moved to flank the enemy. The sand crunched under his boots, shifting and treacherous, and Krem adjusted his footing before swinging his buckler at the opponent's shoulder, grinning as he felt it connect. The Venatori staggered and a couple of bolts and arrows lodged into the man's neck when Trigger and Dandy noticed the opening.

To their right, Grim was hacking at a trio of panicked warriors that Rocky's grenades had set ablaze. The sand had hardened to a smooth glaze and whenever they slipped, Skinner's poisoned dirks were there to greet them.

A rush of charged air alerted them to Dalish's presence. The spell trailed a wave of hot, stinging sand after it and Bull grit his teeth. Fine grains stuck to his sweaty skin. They clung to his vitaar in thick, prickling trails and dug furrows in his throat. He snorted and coughed, but couldn't dislodge them.

"Shit, woman, stop trying to kill your boss." Bull groaned as the elf's body regained substance right behind him.

"Oh, dear. My most humble apologies, Bull." Dalish offered with a carefree grin and her wrist flexed to bathe him in a sheet of ice-cold water before her body faded from view yet again.

_Crazy elf_, Bull thought to himself as he shuddered, but there was no malice in the curse.

A foolish rogue sought to take advantage of his apparent weakness but Bull was in no mood to play nice. A headbutt sent the human reeling back, right into Krem's short sword and the boy stabbed upwards, under the armor's fastenings. The metal pierced deeply, through leather and flesh, lodging into the heart; within a couple of seconds, the body sagged, a puppet with its strings cut.

Seeing his comrade fall, another Venatori roared his challenge and Bull snorted as he thrust the greataxe's end knob towards his newest attacker's ugly helm. The lunge carried him inside the man's guard, and the spiky knob struck hard into the visor's hole. Howling wildly the fighter fell back, hands tugging frantically at the helm as blood pooled from the eye wound. A falcata emerged from the man's chest and the blood sprayed Bull's ochre pants in artful trails. The blade seemed to hover mid-air as the elf wielding it still hid herself behind the Veil.

Slowly, the blood dripped lower, giving the impression of a pair of drooping wings springing from his groin. The sword quivered and though he couldn't see her laughing, Bull's eye narrowed menacingly.

"Twenty-eighth pair, Dalish." he growled "I swear you only do this shit to see how far and fast you can piss me off."

"Nonsense, chief. I'm sure she'd aim for something a bit racier than wings sprouting from your privates if she was going for _speed_." Krem teased and Dalish let her eyes trail contemplatively over his plaideweave trousers.

Bull was unimpressed. "The one time we're supposed to look.."

"It's 'ever 'the one time' with you, boss." Skinner pointed out, as she somersaulted out of range of a warrior's frenzied swings. "All twenty-eight of them."

One of her daggers had managed to nick the sell-sword and the man's coordination was already starting to falter. He looked around despairingly. The battle wasn't going in their favor. If he could only run - the thought flashed through his mind right as the elf had finished luring him into one of Rocky's vicious traps. Skinner raised her voice to be heard over the man's anguished screams. "We've yet to lose a single client over it."

"Rather, it's earned us all some fascinating debates on art." Dalish confided in a stage whisper. Lightning rushed from her fingertips and caught a couple of Venatori mages who had foolishly retreated to the water's edge.

"Well it's earned _me _some fascinating nicknames in certain circles." Bull grumbled and Dalish chortled in genuine surprise.

"Don't tell me all our antics get back to your humorless overlords."

"_Vashedan_... not all of them. But even one is plenty with that lot."

The Chargers smothered grins while Bull, Skinner and Dalish playfully squabbled and rehashed the age-old argument. Even as he chuckled, Krem's keen eyes noticed the assassin's stealthy approach. With a muttered curse the boy rushed the cocky bastard who'd thought to hit Bull's unprotected back.

He struck out with his metal buckler in quick succession, hitting elbow, shoulder and temple and dazing the Venatori. An instant later Dalish bent around him, arms extended, swords digging deep into the hapless vint's unarmored side.

Her breath brushed Krem's cheek as she drew back, and he caught her cheeky smile.

"But you fight so exquisitely when enraged, Bull" she murmured with mock sadness in reply to some vague threat of bodily harm that none of the Chargers ever believed. "I simply can't help myself."

"She's got you there, chief." Krem agreed as he looked for another target.

Trigger had moved to higher ground. He squinted. A group of heavily armored warriors seemed to have focused on the diminutive archer but Noble and Corral were already rushing to his aid and, judging by the hail of arrows, Trigger already had Twigg, Stitches and Dandy's ranged support. He twisted sharply when he noticed a shadow to his left. Had he lost sight of an enemy? He stumbled backwards, tripping over his feet, only to find it no longer a threat. Dalish was slowly pulling her swords free of the man's gut. The elf favored him with a wink.

The battlefield was almost deserted and though they'd been outnumbered three-to-one, Dalish wasn't surprised. Few enemies could stand up to even half the Chargers and all of them had gathered on Ferelden's northern coastline to death with Tevinter - or rather Venatori - agents.

It was an almost unheard of occasion, the nineteen of them working together but Bull had been unusually tight-lipped about the subject, only hinting that they might catch a big one, a long term contract for the entire company.

Krem, who had been sent to their prospective client, would only smile knowingly and say he didn't want to ruin the surprise.

* * *

><p>As they dealt with the stragglers, the wind shifted, howling between the ancient pines, and pushed the heavy clouds that had been hanging threateningly over the mountains directly overhead. They advanced in dark, roiling waves until the beach was cast in an early twilight. In a matter of minutes the Chargers were drenched.<p>

As she dragged a dagger over a dying Venatori's neck, Dalish saw Bull moving towards a small party waiting some distance away: a dwarf, a human and a couple of elves. Noticing the direction of her gaze, Skinner came slinking past the corpse piles.

"You will not believe what I've managed to drag out of Krem. The boss convinced the leaders of this... Inquisition the Chantry is up in arms against, to come observe us in action." she said and her thick Orlesian accent gave the words a strange, lulling cadence in the heavy rain.

"The Chantry is trying to stifle all rumors but supposedly, the Inquisition was blessed by the Maker himself. Either that, or they are led by the one who murdered the Divine and blew up the Conclave in one fell swoop."

"A bit far apart, those two scenarios, aren't they?"

Skinner grinned. "They are, no?"

Dalish cocked her head and frowned. "And… 'the leaders'? Those four?"

The human fit the bill well enough, Dalish supposed, if the Inquisition was a Templar enterprise, for the woman had both the armor and bearing of a senior member of that particular institution. The dwarf on the other hand, was almost ridiculously overdressed for the wilderness, with golden jewelry, a brocade doublet and, if her eyes didn't fool her in this weather, richly embroidered leather trappings - coat, boots, gloves and all.

"Well, the shem's supposed to have been the Right Hand of the Divine." Skinner was saying "and our fellow elf is being hailed as the Herald of Andraste."

"Which of them?"

The two elves were another oddity. The Dalish archer, a young and very handsome elf, was clad in a nugskin ensemble of Orlesian design. He even seemed to wear their ornate, high-heeled boots with ease - a feat she had yet to accomplish, after nearly a decade of living in Orlais.

By contrast, the bare-faced mage - a former Circle mage perhaps - was dressed for comfort, in loose-fitting clothes and the traditional open-soled footwear. He held himself apart from the rest and seemed to be studying her fellow Chargers with an intent, half-lidded gaze which turned to wry amusement as their measuring stares met across the field.

Dalish's own lips twitched in an involuntary smile and she nodded lightly in acknowledgement. What an unusual group.

"Krem!" came Bull's shout. "Tell the men to pack up. The Chargers just got hired."

* * *

><p><strong>AN<strong>: Phew! Depressing part's over, transition done with, onwards with the Inquisition. :)

Now, I don't know whether this author's note will help anyone but in the Elder Scrolls universe the Dunmer had a religion centered around three living gods. In the end, the Tribunal were just incredibly powerful elves who had had access to extraordinary artifacts. Myths were shaped around their involvement in the process of creation but the truth was that they were just paragons of their kind.

By what we see at the Well of Sorrows and what Solas himself hints at [ "I don't believe they were gods, no, but I believe they existed. Something existed to start the legends! If not gods, then mages, or spirits, or something we've never seen." ], I'm going to assume that the Elven Pantheon was similar, incredibly powerful (and immortal) ancient elves _revered as_ gods. Gods who, at the time of Obris' binding to the phylactery, were all still alive.

That's the premise I'm working from.

* * *

><p>Also, I'm very happy to see so many readers giving this story a chance, even if one of the protagonists is a minor character and not the Inquisitor. I'd love to hear your thoughts on what you've seen of the story so far.<p> 


	6. Part One, Chapter V: Evening the Odds

**CHAPTER V**: Evening the Odds

**9:40 Dragon, 19th Kingsway**

Over the past twelve hours, the ebb and flow of patients at the Crossroads' infirmary had settled into a steady rise. Wounded refugees and Inquisition soldiers always provided a constant trickle of patients but tonight two units of the Chargers and the Herald's own party had arrived to receive healing.

With nearly twenty weary, cranky warriors cooped up in the same place, the healers had finally given up on enforcing silence and the place had grown noisier than a mess-hall at lunchtime. At first, the seven Chargers had been reserved around the Herald's companions but Varric wasn't one for standing on ceremony.

He'd started with a tale of how their Grey Warden, Blackwall, had tumbled down a hill right into the middle of a group of sleeping bandits and by the time an hour had passed, the two groups were swapping stories about their adventures in Ferelden.

"...'_My arm! My arm!_' he's screaming, waving the bleeding stump." Rocky recounted. He was lying on his belly and trying to focus on the tale rather than the healer digging shrapnel out of his back. "Noble of course freaks out. _'What's he doing? What's he doing!? Stop him!'_ Like the poor bugger's gonna grow it back or something."

Noble snorted. "You never know, with mages."

"You can't grow limbs back, Noble." Krem replied, trying to nip another of Noble's outrageous theories in the bud. The half-elf was at his most obnoxious when he couldn't run around causing trouble. Now, confined to his cot with an injured knee and a badly-burnt calf, he was bored and had a captive audience to boot.

"What? _We _can't grow back limbs, but we're not blood mages, are we." Noble countered "Maybe that's how some of these apostates get enough limbs for the bone piles we keep seeing." he flippantly added.

Trigger's nose twitched in disgust and, next to him, Sera raised a brow. "What, cut one off, grow it back?" She stopped, and shuddered. "Fuck. Shite, why'd I think that. Now I'm never gonna get it outta my head."

Noble's lips twitched as he tried to maintain a thoughtful pose. "Mayhaps those rich merchants or that sausage vendor you're so fond of buying from, Skinner, are all secretly blood-mages…"

"_Ta gueule_!" Skinner pretended to gag.

"Ugh. Maker's breath, kid! Use that imagination for something less likely to give us nightmares." Varric begged while Cassandra's eyes narrowed in disapproval.

The half-elf grinned, unrepentant. "Bet that's Orlesian for '_Oh, Noble, tell me more._'" he said, mimicking Skinner's high, accented voice. "But yes, we should be angry. Shameless, godless apostates making their fortunes off us poor, ignorant folk."

"Just censor some of yer thoughts, ye daft man." Trigger grumbled over Noble's performance.

"..using fiendish magic.."

"But none of it's right, is it?" Sera interjected "I mean, s'not normal. Any of that shite. _Normal _people don't just wake up one day and wiggle their bits to set people on fire."

Dalish bristled and noticed that the Herald's own mage looked at the female archer with disapproval.

"No, I suppose it takes normal people slightly more effort to kill someone…" she drawled. Her fingers prodded at her swollen cheek, tracing the bruise with light presses. Some dabs of Stitches' last elfroot poultice had mended the cuts above her brow, but the flesh around her left eye was just beginning to darken to an ugly purple.

A templar's mailed fist had caught her by surprise, too busy casting a bolt of lightning to retreat behind the safety of the Veil. The hit had been ugly. Only luck had saved her eye from being gouged by the gauntlet's raised knuckles and she'd been sulking ever since.

"...like say, drawing a bowstring all the way."

Sera shifted in place, pinning Dalish with a frustrated glower. "Look, I'm not saying there's a bloody scale for how hard it is to kill people, with mages doing a jig at the top…"

"Only that there are _normal _and _abnormal _ways of doing it." Dalish interrupted in a soft, faux-mollifying tone, staring at Sera with an inscrutable look. "And magic is one of those abnormal ways."

"Right."

The mage closed her eyes and snorted. "_And to hear an elf say it so confidently. By the Blessed Nine..._" she muttered in elvhen, missing the way Solas startled at her whisper and his brows furrowed in confusion.

He must have misheard, Solas thought, because last he'd seen, the Dalish referred to the pantheon as Creators. It had been ages… His musings were interrupted as a soldier bumped into his shoulder. The poor agent started mumbling some excuses that couldn't be heard over Noble's cackling.

"Oh, Dalish, don't be sad. You're still dearly beloved. Even if your targets die in strange and unnatural ways."

Krem rose from his own pallet and started moving with slow, deliberate steps, testing the firmness of his ankle bindings.

"Or, they could just lose an arm and bleed to death… like it actually happened in Rocky's story." he interrupted with a weary sigh. Sensing the Second's dwindling patience, Noble subsided with a pout.

"An' he never would'a been hit in the first place if he hadn't spun his staff so fancily." Rocky added "Left himself wide open to Trigger's bolts."

"...Which were of course full of your own explosives. Though it seems to me that most of these former circle mages are quite vain, no?" Skinner asked, turning to look at her teammate. "I don't know why they don't simply cast as you do, Dalish."

"As I do?" Dalish curtly enquired. "You will have to be more specific, Skinner."

"Well, with simple motions... none of that arm waving, body bending, staff twirling nonsense. It may not look impressive when you twitch your fingers" Skinner declared and both mages' brows rose at the Orlesian's offhand assessment "but if they'd restrain themselves to something plainer perhaps more of them would live, no?"

"If they could, I'm certain they would attempt it." Dalish murmured evasively.

From his seat by the edge of the gathering, Solas hummed his agreement and added "What you mistake for an economy of movement is a skill that takes a very long time to master, _da'len_." He was staring at Dalish with a thoughtful expression and Skinner turned to her teammate for confirmation.

The blonde elf pursed her lips but nodded. It wasn't something that she advertised, and she rather resented the older mage for pointing it out, but it wasn't worth fighting over. She figured that it was still a skill she could have conceivably attained with enough hard work, even though she looked in her twenties.

"I have noticed that many mages consider it a waste, learning to cast without a focus." she said, shrugging. "A pity that, as they're severely crippled when disarmed."

Trigger grinned. "But good fer us." the archer said "I know that most their spells miss me at thirty paces if they ain't got their staffs."

"Yes. Their casting either becomes erratic" Dalish agreed "or takes significantly longer to complete."

"But surely not all of them are so dependent on their little sticks!" Skinner exclaimed. The little Orlesian seemed outraged at the thought of such widespread incompetence and Dalish tried to smother her smile as it pulled painfully at the bruised, tender skin of her cheek.

"Not all of them, of course. A wise mage will focus on mastering a handful of essential spells without a focus before expanding his repertoire." Solas explained which caused Cassandra to inhale sharply. "But that same mage would never be caught harrying peasants for scraps of food."

"So when you relinquished your staff at Haven's gates?" the Seeker indignantly demanded.

Solas blinked twice and, in spite of the pain, Dalish couldn't smother a grin. Caught in a lie, his features had settled into a blank expression, the sort of stone-faced, perfectly polite mask one donned at court, in front of foolish people that held a more privileged position than oneself.

"I was being respectful of the Inquisition's authority."

"Coming unarmed should have been a show of coming in peace and here you are saying that you could have hurt the Inquisition at any time!"

The elf held his hands placatively. "And yet, Cassandra, I did not."

The Seeker rose with a huff. "Fine. I suppose it's already done with. But this sort of subterfuge sickens me. If anyone needs me, I will be with the Herald."

* * *

><p>On the other side of the infirmary, the atmosphere was only slightly less tense.<p>

Between Cassandra, Blackwall and the Iron Bull, there were plenty of front-line fighters to lead a charge against whatever enemies threatened the Inquisition's endeavors. Varric, Sera and the Herald himself provided exceptional ranged support, as did Solas.

But while they'd advanced through the rogue templar forces unimpeded, the apostates were giving the Herald's party quite a bit of trouble. This latest attempt at clearing out a mage hideout had been a risky undertaking and none of them had come out of it completely unscathed. It had been ridiculous to think they could counter a dozen spell-casters with a single mage and templar of their own and Lavellan blamed himself for landing their party in the infirmary.

"I'll be honest with you, Bull." he said to the Qunari as soon as they were by themselves. "Cullen is singing the Chargers' praises whenever we meet. But we're not making much headway ourselves. I'd really like some of your men to come with us. A healer would be great, if you happen to have one in the Chargers."

Bull grunted approvingly. "It's a good plan, boss. I'll talk to Stitches. He's the company's healer. Makes a potion that'll put you right on your feet after even the toughest fight. Could have used some of his brews after that last battle. Those spells the apostates were flinging about really packed a punch."

"That they did. And speaking of mages... Back on the coast it looked as if one of your fighters might have used some spells of her own." Lavellan said in an even tone.

The tall, fair-haired elf had caught his eye as he'd studied the mercenaries fighting against the Tevinter forces and his interest had only grown when he'd noticed her _vallaslin_. Her fighting style was unlike anything the mages of his clan practiced, another point of intrigue.

He'd considered approaching her in private but hadn't wanted to step on Bull's toes, as the Qunari always sounded quite protective when speaking of his Chargers.

"Yeah, Dalish. Good for the fireworks and a dab hand with a sword. Twice the trouble of your average mage, and that's not counting her teammates' influence." Bull praised with a grin.

"Does she know any defensive magics?" the archer asked.

"Her shields are fine. Make my skin crawl…" the Qunari admitted and Lavellan drew back in surprise. "It's how I know they're strong."

The young Herald chuckled and nodded. "Excellent. Let's have both join us for the next trip into the northwestern hills and see how that goes."

* * *

><p><em>Ta gueule! - <em>Basically a rude way of asking someone to shut up. (French... I mean Orlesian!)

"_By the Blessed Nine" - _Related to what I mentioned in the previous author's note, I doubt the ancient elves referred to their gods by the title of Creators. So there wouldn't be a "By the Creators!" but they'd still have some way of blasphemously expressing frustration XD

* * *

><p><strong>AN<strong>: I can't believe no one called me out for having Krem say 'boss' instead of 'chief'. Oops! At least I noticed after just one chapter. Fixed. :)

Now, a question: Who is _your _favourite minor character? I guess this story shows that Dalish is one of mine. :) ...and Krem and Skinner too.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Next up<strong>_: Lavellan, Solas, Sera and Dalish become best buddies, bosom friends… _or not_.


	7. Part Two, Chapter VI: Unbidden

**AN:** After listening to Patrick Weekes talk about Solas in a recent podcast, I really, **really **wanted to write a chapter from his perspective and it seemed fitting to do it at the very start of Part Two. It's definitely harder to write but I love him too much not to try.

* * *

><p><span><strong>PART TWO<strong>**: Solas**

'_I'm the hero of this story, I don't need to be saved. It's alright, it's alright… it's alright... no one's got it all.' _Regina Spektor (Hero)

**CHAPTER VI**: Unbidden

**9:40 Dragon, 26th Kingsway**

They walked the wooded paths of his ruined domain, fours disparate souls fashioned as elves.

The Herald led the party, as he was wont to do these days, with a confident stride. In his mind's eye, the Dalish archer shone with a radiant spirit whose edges were only slightly dulled, pockmarked by the presence of Fen'harel's own savage magic.

Sera and the warrior mage, _Dalish_, fluttered in Lavellan's wake like moths, diminished by the Herald's brilliance. The women journeyed through the remnants of his People's history with blinders, clinging to the present with a determination he could neither forgive nor understand.

He followed last. Tall grasses curled under his soles, bracken bent in his passing and though the forests were much changed, there was no need to watch his steps under the ancient boughs.

"_You have grown so strong, little saplings." _he whispered, placing a hand against an thick, moss-covered trunk. _"Do you still remember by whose magic you were first blessed?_"

Wisps of his magic still lingered in the earth and from the each budding leaf they sang a soft, quieting lament which reflected his own sorrow. Rent in half by the Veil, weakened by the millenia spent in _uthenera_, he no longer possessed the magic to renew the ancient spells.

"_Would that I could make your stronger still, children of my will, for I find you as old and weary as myself._" His aura grasped at the fading threads as though their touch could soothe his ages old hurt and Fen'harel knew his grief lingered in the air.

* * *

><p><strong>9:40 Dragon, 27th Kingsway<strong>

All of them felt the magic of the woods, in their own way.

By virtue of their connection through the mark, Lavellan had basked in the reflected warmth of the forest's touch and the loving, welcoming caress of its magic. He was calmer, reflective, more in tune with the pulse of living world around him and it gladdened Solas to see at least _this_ aspect of elvhen nature preserved in the Dalish.

At length, Mahanon turned to his companions. He asked about the warrior mage's clan and the woman's answers were short and playful. Solas found himself thinking that smiles looked odd on her face. _Why?_

She deftly turned the conversation to the Herald's own past and soon the archer was regaling them with tales of wild chases through the rocky moors of the southeastern Free Marches, harrying nugs with his cousins and pretending they were mighty hunters.

The fair-haired woman looked enchanted and Lavellan too seemed unable to take his eyes off her.

"...This passion persisted throughout my childhood. I trained daily with our hunters and scouts, willing my fingers to draw just that bit faster, to hold the bow just that bit steadier. My cousins found their interest in the hunt waning as we grew older. Sevren decided to apprentice under our master craftsman while Miriel took up the sword."

"And you alone, steadfast in your admiration of the Primal Game, gave yourself to Andruil. A worthy choice." Her praise was generous but she knew not what she was saying.

Solas closed his eyes tightly and only heard as Lavellan laughingly agreed with her assessment. Her poorly-chosen words had stirred such painful memories.

'_Come, my beautiful wolf._' Andruil had said, in ages past. '_Join me tomorrow. I promise not to beg for your affections when you are riding the high of the hunt. Join me as a friend, if you will._'

And though she had lusted for him no less than usual, she'd kept her word that day - to play without pestering - and it had been a glorious hunt.

His nostrils flared as though they could recall the smell of the storm-stallion's sour blood and the salty, coppery sweat on the bodies of all his mares, scattered across mire; a whole herd of the mighty beasts downed in the grand chase.

'_See, Dread Wolf._' she'd teased when he resumed his elvhen form, eyes bright, covered in blood and panting '_Of us all, you least can slake your thirst for the Primal Game. I will have Allam arrange such things again.'_

His hungry gaze had settled on her then and he remembered grinning widely. '_You may prefer the wetlands, Andruil_' he'd rumbled as he circled her still form '_but I will always choose a forest as my hunting grounds. If you wish more of my company, provide the proper entertainment._'

She'd sniffed and turned her head but the slight curl of her lips betrayed her. She wasn't offended and would always chase after him. _'Iriel then, will see to it. It's been over two decades since you've been to the Brecilian forest, has it not?'_

* * *

><p>A delicate hand settled on his shoulder and his eyes opened to Lavellan's worried gaze.<p>

"Solas, are you well?"

When his nod did not soothe the other elf's concern, he sighed and said "Most assuredly, Herald. Tired, perhaps, and lost in thought."

"If you're certain…"

With a last look, the archer returned to Dalish' side. Solas studied her profile, the creamy length of her neck as she leant in to whisper something in the Herald's ear. He caught the raven's slight shudder as her breath fanned against his ear, their easy smiles and his hands tightened around his staff.

Their happiness shouldn't have bothered him. Perhaps it wouldn't have, had they been anywhere but in the middle of his own fallen kingdom, where he was forced to play the part of the graceless, weary old fool lest they discover his true nature.

He held the rear in silence, brooding, a match for Sera who had grown sullen and snappish as they ventured deeper into the wilds.

Her nails tapped an odd rhythm on the longbow's grip and she covered her unease by interrupting the Herald's stories with rude noises or crass remarks.

"...and that was the first time I could remember being afraid of the woods." Lavellan let his gaze roam over the forested slopes. "I wonder how this must have looked like, in the days of Arlathan. How it must have been for the elves who lived here..."

"It does us no good to focus on all that was lost, Mahanon. That way lies madness…" Dalish whispered and Solas was surprised at the urgency in her tone. "Nature, at least, is resilient. While cities fall, with time these woods may yet regain some of their former splendor."

"So, let me get this straight. _Cities _falling doesn't worry you. Talking about it like '_easy come, easy go_, _we'll just plant some trees_'." Sera snidely noted.

Dalish turned to peer over her shoulder. "Was that a question, Sera?"

"Just… I know I'm not saying it right. But we're in the butt-crack of nowhere. _All this_ is something you want more of? _This_?!"

"By your tone, I take it you're not referring to the forest's majesty." the mage baited.

"Majesty. _Right_. Dung 'tween your toes, mud to the knees, bugs and spiders crawling under the collar. Oh, the glory of it all! Give me more."

Solas' eyes narrowed, Dalish sneered lightly yet Mahanon was kind and patient when he enquired "Is something bothering you, Sera?"

"What's there to bother me? This whole place's like some big, freaking stables, just as dirty and smelly, only with fancy-horned horses and greener grass." she declared.

"Can't say I see the uses of an empire of this shite. Unless, dunno, you're into that. Just wait for autumn and bang, hills of fucking haycocks for thousands of elfy elves to roll in. Pmph! Cocks. _Fucking _hay-_cocks_ even. Not my thing though. And I'm stuck here... because elves."

The Herald sighed. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Sera. Please believe that I asked for your company out of a sense of camaraderie, not elven solidarity."

"Right, that's why were here… four _elves_."

Thankfully, Lavellan would not indulge her further. At the warrior mage's urging, the archer resumed his stories.

He spoke freely of spring mornings in the rain, of children's feet slipping in the mud, siblings crushing fragrant herbs under the aravels' canopies and innocent mischief.

"...We came back long after nightfall, joking and laughing, with only a tiny satchel of bitter elfroot to show for our efforts.

Hahren Talis gave a shout of relief and then started chasing us around the camp, threatening to give us both to the Dread Wolf. Father and four other scouts were still out looking for us you see, and we were camped near the Basalt Vaults in Starkhaven, deep in human lands.

For a day of leisure, we'd worried the clan half to death. Neither Sevren nor I could sit for days after that hiding…"

Lavellan's smile was bittersweet.

"I miss them all, dearly… I hope this clan hasn't moved on. It'll be a relief to speak to more of the People. To say nothing of walking through these woods. How fortunate to find some part of the Dales unspoiled by all the wars."

"Yet the Dread Wolf's halls lay in ruins, Mahanon." said the woman softly, though her eyes scanned the dense thickets still, and her hand didn't lift from the sword at her side.

She seemed wary.

Lavellan's surprise must have mirrored Solas' own for the mage stiffened when both elves stopped to look at her.

"How do you assume, _da'len_?" the older mage asked, trying to keep a neutral tone. "The Emerald Knights had wolves for guardians too, and though we are at the far western side, these so called Exalted Plains are still part of the Dales."

His eyes caught the way her tongue dashed to lick her lips, how she stopped her eyes from darting around. _Was she was nervous?_ he asked himself _Why?_

"I thought it obvious, _hahren_." she drawled and there wasn't even the faintest quiver in her voice when she spoke. _Had he imagined it?_

"Though perhaps my eyesight is sharper than your own. There are runes carved at the base of these statues."

"And what have your sharp eyes noticed, _little scholar_?" he hissed, daring the arrogant girl to lecture him on his own spellcraft.

The woman's lips stretched and he couldn't turn his gaze from the narrow, mirthless smile. He felt his heartbeat quicken and realized that he wanted someone to acknowledge his work, even this short-lived wild elf. He suspected she would get it wrong, feared she might get it right and waited with bated breath.

"One set draws power from the ambient magic, _honored elder_, while another provides a conduit to increase the ambient magic."

_She'd noticed!_ He was elated that someone still understood his craft but this also meant that she bore witness to his shame. He hated her.

"Couldn't someone else, err, increase this ambient magic?" Lavellan innocently asked.

_There, laid bare._ he thought as Dalish shook her head with a mournful expression.

"The Veil shrouds us all. I doubt that even with ritual magic the Emerald Knights could have gathered enough energy to power the conduits, let alone channel the necessary magic to keep the beacons lit."

"Ritual magic?" Lavellan questioned and the mages found themselves answering as one, in nearly the same dismissive tone.

"Blood magic."

_That tone!_ Solas reeled. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he clenched it tightly, lest the accusations spill out.

His eyes traced over the sharp planes of her face and the lines of her _vallaslin_. Yes, he remembered now, why this woman had seemed so familiar.

He'd seen her in the Fade, that jaded fighter who'd abandoned her comrades to huddle with a dying human in the dark, the wildling wearing Dirthamen's brand while calling out for Andruil's favour.

His eyes narrowed in thought. And now the elf had wheedled her way into the Herald's own party. This _Dalish_ would bear watching, especially as Lavellan seemed determined to win the woman's affections.

He was still slightly upset about the burgeoning friendship between the Herald and the Iron Bull, even though the Ben-Hassrath agent hadn't compromised the Inquisition's security thus far. His Charger though, a simple mercenary, should be far easier to eliminate than the tough, crafty Qunari. His lips curled slightly.

Perhaps she was wise to feel unsafe in his domain, ravaged by time though it may be.

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><p><strong>AN<strong>: Please feed the hungry author. She needs reviews lest she starve. Even a simple 'kudos mate' brightens up her day. :)


	8. Part Two, Chapter VII: Unwelcome

**AN:** Never do what I did, dear readers, and write a latter chapter before you've finished all the previous ones. It's the shortest road to writer's block. :|

Now, I've never suggested any song to listen to while reading before… but I had Zack Hemsey's The Way (the Instrumental version) on repeat while writing this chapter. (so... I must have listened to it a gazillion times) If anyone's interested in, I dunno, mood music, that's what I'd recommend. :)

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><p><strong>CHAPTER VII<strong>: Unwelcome

**9:40 Dragon, 2nd Harvestmere**

Obris hated sleep. She loathed it as a blind man might loathe the idea of colors, of a whole universe of expression, cruelly denied.

During the ages spent trapped inside the phylactery, she had languished between life and death, unable to sleep or seek the blessed freedom of _uthenera_. She had drifted through time, closed off from the world and her own senses, with only her thoughts for company.

Thoughts, as it turned out, were a dangerous company to keep.

As the others had worked to win the war, she had been left in the darkness, left to chip away at her sanity one precious memory at a time. She'd felt and fondled her thoughts until the shards of memory had melted into a heavy, viscid mass that ground her mind to a halt.

Every idea she could have ever had, envisioned again and again - and _again_ and _**again **_-, until it clung to her soul like a ragged, tangling weave, like a wet cloth slapped over her mouth and nose, heavy and suffocating. There was no freedom in knowing herself so well and no release from it.

After being dragged into Maial's body, she must have fallen unconscious. She had woken up in the Fade, the stranger half of a world that had been rent in two. She had been... _less_, then. Physically weaker, of course, but fragile of mind as well, sanity stretched to the ends of endurance.

She had met the Fade as a starving animal might: _ecstatic_, _greedy_, _unrestrained_. Here was a _place _that wasn't _herself. _It was no wonder that demons came…

Balance, symmetry, restitution for past suffering - every sentient being has, at some point, felt the need for recompense, when life has piled so very much on one's shoulders that it just _has _to give something in return.

She had deserved peace, Obris knew this. She had _earned_ it.

Instead, she had been greeted by hate, rage and fear demons… madness and despair. If Obris felt contempt for the waking world, she despised the Fade.

Nowadays, it was only another place to release pent up aggression - a dangerous one to visit on a nightly basis, as had been happening of late.

Sheer frustration had driven her there. No, anger too. And a smidgen perhaps of self-righteous indignation at being forced to play the game of another. Lavellan's supposed friend. _Solas_.

She felt his eyes on her, as she'd been feeling them for the past five days. Ever since their conversation about the ancient statues, Mahanon's companion had been staring at her with a dark intensity she didn't like.

Whereas Mahanon was an astonishingly _good_ person, genuine in his kindness, cheerful, curious - an assessment undoubtedly influenced by the flattering interest he'd shown in her -, Solas was his shadowed reflection: stoic, subdued before ...and quietly hostile of late. His magic had become daring, aura flaring, brushing, rubbing against her skin at the oddest of times.

She had pushed back, of course. She was not in court, mute and motionless at Lord Iriel's side, forced to let her shields be pawed and clawed at by every bored noble looking for a reaction, by every jealous _night-singer_ cuddling in her Master's lap.

'_Let's see how long this one lasts without squirming, my Lord._' they used to titter.

'_Obris has been trained well enough._' Lord Iriel would carelessly reply, focused on their expert ministrations and either oblivious or indifferent to his First Guard's discomfort. '_Do your worst, sweet things._'

Yet as soon as her own magic surged, Solas' retreated, smooth and silent like the evening tide, an elusive enemy - damn him. She shrouded herself in magic for as long as possible, but it was not a mastered skill. Hers was like a rough slap to his light but insistent touches.

It didn't take long for Mahanon and Sera to grow uncomfortable under the bristling, crackling magic. Then, she let go. She could almost catch the ghost of a smirk, never more, and he'd deign to leave her be for an hour or two, until his aura rose anew, to push and poke and probe and drive her to distraction.

She had no idea what he was looking for. He seemed to be taking her measure - and taking his time about it too; watching, cataloguing, judging every move and tallying the flaws.

This unwelcome scrutiny was putting a strain on her temper.

It made for strange, frightening dreams which left her drained and dazed in the morning light, like an oil painting splattered with turpentine, hurriedly colored over and then sprayed once more - all runny layers, mixed and muddled.

Five nights of fighting demons in the Fade were enough though, and Dalish decided to tackle the issue head on. In a manner of speaking.

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><p><strong>9:40 Dragon, 3rd Harvestmere<strong>

His fingers stroked the grey fur of his collar as she approached. Without her armor she was a wisp of a woman, willowy, no curves to speak of. Still, his eyes trailed over her features, followed the flaxen strands which snaked down her shoulders, ember in the firelight, smoky in the shadow.

She took her time, skirting around the fire, prowling behind their tents. He had expected that she'd feign weakness, perhaps approach Lavellan for support. Over the past few days he had collected a trove of tiny inconsistencies in her manner, made a mosaic of the little pieces and thought her figured out.

Yet here she was, a daring fox slinking towards the wolf. _The lady likes games, it seems._

He smothered a smile and banked the heat rising in the pit of his stomach. Such tactics wouldn't work on him, not when he was aware of the viper and her interest in the Herald.

His ears followed her steps, slow but unhesitant.

After a while he felt her at his back, hovering by his shoulder like an angry shade; a warm, living shade smelling of yarrow, basil and that sweet forest moss which sagged softly under his paws. With effort, he wrenched his thoughts from the image of running his hands over her flesh and finding it as pliant, as yielding to his touch. _Would she spill her secrets in a moment of passion?_

He flipped through the pages of his tome mechanically, remembering little of what he read. As the silence lengthened, he peered over his shoulder. She was looking down with a patient expression and a bland, ridiculously polite half-smile which made his teeth ache.

"Ser Solas, might I have a moment of your time?" the woman queried as soon as he turned to look at her.

He bit back the first four replies and nodded, inviting her to speak.

"Have I wronged you in any way, ser?"

_How refreshingly blunt._ "Why would you ask that, _da'len_?"

"I feel the press of your magic, ser. It's unpleasant."

"You feel it, do you? What a remarkable ability." His voice was wry as he turned to another page.

"As remarkable as channeling one's magic to brush against a person without permission."

"Oh?"

"And doing so repeatedly. Over a length of time. And to their clear discomfort." she added, her lilting voice growing sharp and pointed towards the end.

"Mayhaps the person in question shows an unusual sensitivity to magic." he said, sidestepping the issue.

"It's not a matter of magical sensitivity, but of you spreading your aura like a great lion unfurling after a nap." the girl quickly retorted, angry and flustered.

He hummed, thoughtfully.

"How careless of me then."

She glared at him, incensed. "_Oh, by June's sturdy staff! Stop being deliberately obtuse, you unreasonable old elf._" she hissed under her breath, a stream of charmingly accented Elvish and he choked back a laugh at the curse.

"It all conveniently started when I challenged your interpretation of the wolf statues scattered about the Dales. I would not have pegged you as the sort to hold a grudge."

"_Is that what I have been doing? Why would I? A thing to note though, child… Old I may be, but not unreasonable._" His voice was flippant and she flushed. "_Though insulting me in a supposedly foreign tongue will hardly raise you in my esteem._"

Her mouth slackened in surprise - _At the admonishment? His fluency in Elvish?_ - and the blush darkened. It spread down the length of her neck, past her delicate collarbone and into her night shift; he found his gaze growing half-lidded. _Would her breasts…_ he brutally silenced the thought.

Opening the book, he resumed his research and studiously ignored her. The conversation was over. The quiet stretched.

"_If you wish to gain something, I believe diplomacy would serve you best." _he couldn't help taunting when she finally made to leave.

"_Or bargaining. Perhaps._"

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><p><strong>AN<strong>: First off, a million hugs for all the lovely reviews. :)

Secondly, I have this head-canon that ancient elven swear words would involve their gods (even if they were living gods) so long as it wasn't their own patron - or even if it was sometimes ;)

But you'd be more likely to hear a elven man swearing by Andruil, Sylaise or Mythal (if they were that bold) and a woman swearing by the male gods… with bonus points if it was somehow a compliment. And I see Dalish as the type to admire a god's physical attributes not just his power.

Of course no one would be stupid enough to do it in the god's presence but otherwise… that's why Dalish is all about June's bouncy buttocks and his sturdy staff. ;)


	9. Part Two, Chapter VIII: Unwanted

**AN: **I've rewritten this chapter three times because I hate writing sad bits - they just f*** up my whole day.

When it comes to Solas/Fen'harel my thoughts are like a ball of yarn. All tangled up and when I want to follow a thread I end up finding twenty others, of different colours, which turn the character in a completely different direction from where I thought he'd end up in.

In-game, for the most part, we see Solas: quiet, bookish, kind to strangers, somewhat obsessed with the Fade and with Views (yes, it deserves the capital letter) when it comes to slavery.

At times we get a glimpse of Fen'harel, such as when he murders the mages who turned his friend into a demon or when you drink from the Well of Sorrows.

And then, behind the scenes, the Dread Wolf lurks; the one who gave his Orb to Corypheus… who may have killed a loyal servant (Felassan, in the Masked Empire) for one foolish decision, instead of ordering him to try again… the one who takes Mythal's essence just to continue his quest. (And how chilling it is that the dev notes say that Mythal knew he'd kill her if she stood in his way.)

I want to write Solas and Fen'harel keeps slipping in… but I'm terrified that if/when the mask comes off, it won't be Fen'harel under it, but the Dread Wolf. That one would have no love to spare for a simple guard, only an instant's pity and a swift death.

And damn it all, this story is not a tragedy! :( So the author's left to devise ways of leashing the wolf. Moral support would be much appreciated, dear readers.

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><p><strong>Warning<strong>: Morally dubious views on slavery, uncomfortable mentions of religion and hints of horrible acts. ...Because almost anyone in the world has a tunnel vision when it comes to the issues which touched their hearts, ancient bodyguards and noble rebels being no different.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER VIII:<strong> Unwanted

"To get a dream of life again, a little vision of the start and the end… I needed one more touch, another taste of divine rush." Florence and the Machine (Breath of Life)

**9:40 Dragon, 5th Harvestmere**

In the stale air they danced, dust motes and fine grains of sand, like short flashes of darkness against the narrow shafts of light piercing through the dirty window. Dalish had seated herself on the ground, huddled against a burlap sack, and was playing with the swirling specks, letting them trail over her fingertips.

She hadn't pushed against Solas' magic for hours but to the mage the victory seemed somehow hollow. The Herald had been the one to make her so maudlin, surprisingly enough, not him.

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><p>Earlier in the day Lavellan and Dalish had walked some ways ahead of the group, speaking in hushed voices and while Solas had respected their need for privacy for a while, his curiosity - <em>Well-founded suspicion<em>, he reminded himself - won out in the end.

A quick glance showed him that Sera was caught up in unbuckling her gauntlets' fastenings - worn, dirty ropes that barely passed for straps. She was wholly focused on the endeavor, cursing under her breath as her blunt nails scraped at some troublesome knots. Quickly, the mage lengthened his stride until he was closer to the whispering pair.

Dalish was leaning against the Herald as they walked, with the archer's arm slung over her shoulder, drawing her close.

"Your friend, Solas, he speaks Elvish very well for a city elf." Dalish said, as she fiddled with the gilded studs attached to the edges of Mahanon's leather pauldrons.

"Solas didn't grow up in an Alienage." Lavellan gently corrected her, pursing his lips as he tried to recall details of his friend's life. "We haven't spoken much about his past. But I know he's from some small village to the north."

"How odd then."

"I think his language skills may be a side effect of his travels in the Fade, though, not his upbringing." said the archer with a slight smile.

Dalish perked up. "He explores the Fade… Is he a dreamer?"

"He is." Lavellan said with a nod. "The tales he's told me about the days of old... they sound incredible."

"I should think the events we are part of now are pretty incredible as well."

"I wonder sometimes…" said Mahanon, his words trailing off as he thought of everything he'd experienced since leaving the clan. "Dalish, you've lived among the humans for so long, what's your opinion on this whole _Herald of Andraste_ business?" he asked with self-deprecating humor, waving the arm bearing his mark.

She grasped Lavellan's hand and, holding his palm within both of hers, Dalish gently traced the now quiescent magical currents. Solas' eyes narrowed as he felt an echo of the spell she weaved around the Herald's mark.

"'Tis an impressive power that has been bestowed upon you…" Dalish said cautiously, subtly probing the tightly-coiled magics. "But I am not certain it has anything to do with the Maker or his pretty bride."

"Why?"

"Gods do not share power easily, Mahanon." answered Dalish with a lopsided smile, dropping his hand. "I doubt this Maker is any different. He'd be a fool to gift mortals with such tools. Unless he's the sort to peer deeply into a person's heart, divine their true natures and all that nonsense."

Lavellan laughed and flexed his fingers, making the mark glow eerily and sputter. "You don't believe that?"

She shrugged. "He couldn't have known that you would not misuse the power or work against his wishes. Has this Maker ever spoken to you? Perhaps sent his lovely Andraste to whisper orders in your ear as you sleep." Dalish teased and the archer chuckled.

"Can't say that he has."

"Well then." she said, affecting a superior expression which let the hidden amusement bleed through. "I make no claim to wisdom, but it seems hasty to infer a connection between the mark and Maker merely because you had been standing at the center of a bastion of human faith."

"So it was all by chance?"

Dalish offered him a smile and a brief, one-armed embrace. "A series of events - fortunate or otherwise. Tell me, had you been found inside the Shaperate, would the mark had been a sign of the Ancestors' favor? Had you been wandering with your clan, would the mark had been a gift from the Ni— the Creators?"

Solas's hand tightened around his staff. There it was again. A slip of the tongue which told him plenty, but not enough. Lavellan though, looked skeptical.

"Aren't the Ancestors supposed to be dead and the Creators imprisoned?"

At his flippant, though honest question Dalish grew visibly upset. She shrugged off his arm and put some distance between them as they walked. "Supposed to be, said to be…" she bit out. "I loathe these words. Nobody knows anything."

Lavellan looked at her with confusion. "Our stories are pretty clear, Dalish." he gently said. "The Dread Wolf—"

"Oh, I've heard the legends." Dalish interrupted "And find them as likely as the fact that we've been made by this Maker. Gods imprisoning gods..." she muttered with disgust.

"Is it so hard to believe that there was strife among the gods?"

"Oh, that isn't what I question." She snorted and closed her eyes. "I can see them fighting with one another." she added with a secret little smile "Warring over land and slights both real and imagined."

For an instant, Solas found himself tempted to share that smile. _The follies of youth, _he thought.

"But to believe that somehow Fen'harel sneaked past Elgar'nan's legions, past blessed Andruil's armies, Falon'din's and Anaris' hordes of slaves, spirits and monsters" she mockingly listed, missing Lavellan's shocked gasp. How easily she used of the Forgotten One's name.

"That he evaded Daern'thal's sentries, Dirthamen and Geldauran's spies and set up a masterful trap. Which he then sprung on all the other gods - even Sylaise, June, Ghilan'nain and blessed Mythal. No, that seems a too fanciful tale."

Lavellan moved to close the distance between them. "Almost anything can be accomplished through trickery and deceit, _lethallan_. The Bringer of Nightmares is a being to be wary of." he said, soothingly, and Solas choked down a bitter laugh. This coming from the man who wanted Solas for a friend and had sought his company from the very beginning. The irony burned like a poisoned dart.

Dalish looked unconvinced. "Why then didn't he turn on his brothers and sisters from the start? And what of the rest? I should think that even a mad god has something better to do than cackle in a dark corner for centuries on end."

"Mad?"

Dalish fixed him with a blank look. "The murder of the pantheon, the destruction of an empire. Do those sound like the actions of any sane person?"

"So why aren't the Creators answering our prayers?" Lavellan asked and Dalish grew quiet.

"I don't know." She grimaced, her gaze becoming unfocused. Her lips parted, pursed then opened again as she warred with herself over what to say. "I've been… away from the clan for a long time. I haven't found any answers." she whispered. "I just don't know."

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><p>Dalish had kept her silence for the rest of the day, lost in thought. When the sun fled behind the hills and Lavellan decided to set camp, she had only nodded, offering no input. Mahanon had stopped them at the top of a barren cliffside, within sight of a tiny wooden cabin.<p>

While Sera and the Herald had left to catch some game, Dalish had taken refuge inside the dusty old dwelling, dropping her pack by the door and curling behind a couple of heavy crates. She gave no sign of having heard Solas enter or seen the mage settle his things by her side.

Even as she played with the floating motes, she seemed far away and Solas started lightly when Dalish addressed him in Elvish.

"_Solas, Mahanon says that you are a dreamer. Tell me, in your travels… have you found any evidence of the gods?_" Dalish enquired in a raspy voice.

He flinched. Of all the things to ask him. "_If they ever existed—_"

"_They did._" Her voice brooked no argument.

"_Then no, I have not._"

A gusty sigh. "_Thank you, Solas._"

"_Why do you ask?_"

"_Mahanon believes our gods were banished._" Dalish said, avoiding his gaze. "_Sera would rather believe that we all evolved from nugs than acknowledge any higher authority. You don't seem to believe in the gods at all. And I know— I… Of them all, I would have hoped that since you walk the Fade... Nevermind, t'was a foolish thought._"

Solas stopped to study her. Her face was drawn and pale, brows furrowed as if in pain. For some reason the matter seemed to be weighing on her and Solas realized that he disliked seeing her features twisted in grief. "_I believe that something existed to start the legends. If not gods, then mages, or spirits, or something we've never seen._"

"_But what would define a god, then?_" Dalish asked "_Omnipotence? Omniscience?_"

"_Those would have helped…_" Solas muttered grimly.

"_What?_"

Inwardly cursing himself for the slip, Solas cleared his throat. "_I said, those would help._"

"_They would, but I don't think they're necessary._" said Dalish, turning to look at her companion. "_Any power sufficiently removed from the understanding of the masses can pass for divinity._"

Solas snorted. "_The gullibility of the masses has never been in question._" he said scornfully.

"_You seem to disapprove. But why shouldn't power pass for divinity?_"

"_Why should it?_" he angrily retorted "_So that the few may raise themselves above the many?_"

Dalish blinked, confused at his sudden aggression. "_I see nothing wrong with that. Talent will always be rewarded._"

"_Truly?_" he hissed "_Well, the Emp— Imperium shows us how well that works. Slaves and bound spirits. Are their talents rewarded or are they left to toil and die in the same squalor they were born in?_"

"_There will always be those born to lesser means. Let them be useful._" Dalish said with a shrug.

"_Useful?! They are abused and have no means of escaping their lives._"

"_Look who is a champion of the oppressed!_" Dalish laughed bitterly, missing how Solas flinched at her careless words as if slapped. "_While your worried gaze is turned to the poor, helpless slaves of Tevinter and the sad, mistreated elves inside the Alianages, you miss all the nobles' sons who are raised as dogs, with a cane in one hand and treats in the other, to follow in their parents footsteps; you overlook all the daughters whose noble fathers whore their freedom in return for lands and riches._"

"_The many woes of the rich._" he sneered "_You are asking me to—_"

"_No, Solas._" she interrupted. "_I am not asking anything of you. Focus your sight on the more obvious suffering. Mayhaps if your gaze is fixed on the servants scrubbing the floors you will miss the screams of the little boy whose noble uncle is teaching him a lesson in pleasing one's guests._" she bit out.

The fight seemed to bleed out of him. "_Dalish. I—_"

"_Living is harsh for everybody but I believe that there used to be a rhythm to life. I…_" she hesitated "_We Dalish tell other stories as well. Of times when the gods walked among u— the Elvhen. Of an empire that spanned the world and a people that flourished. Perhaps you have seen echoes in the Fade. Tell me, was it not glorious?_"

There was such naked hope on her face that Solas couldn't help but answer. "_Glorious? From the… little I have seen, I did not find it so. But it amazes me what you would hail as glorious when the Dalish I met would have seen me dead for my blasphemous words." _

"_Blasphemous words?"_

"_You see, I have approached the clans before. Your people have always spurned m— the knowledge found in memories, sneered at the remnants of a lost world, mocked the idea of a culture steeped in blood._"

"_These latter days seem bloody as well._" Dalish gently countered. "_If you've had hints that anything of the past has survived..._"

He kept his silence.

"_Solas…_"

"_Nothing worthwhile has endured the passage of time._" the mage said harshly, averting his face.

"_I… see. Thank you, Solas. It is a bitter thought. But—_" her breath hitched as she withheld a sob. "_You will think me foolish… but I long for it…_"

"_Isn't what your elders teach you enough?_" Solas asked and Dalish's laugh rent the air like a whip.

"_Have scraps ever been enough for you?_"

"_No._" he agreed with a rueful smile. "_Never._"

He looked at her, eyes slipping to the green brand marring her face, marking her as Dalish... labeling her as Dirthamen's slave. And yet here she was, all but advocating slavery.

"_You baffle me, Dalish._" The words slipped out, unbidden. "_You use techniques of old, speak Elvish as well as any Elvhen… Your supremacist views are absolutely bizarre for a one such as yourself…_"

"_One such as I?_" she asked, avoiding his implied question.

Solas' frown told her he had noticed the evasion but decided to indulge her. "_Callous. Willful. Haughty. Secretive._" Solas whispered and though the words were cruel, his low voice wrapped smoothly around each listed flaw, hiding the cutting edges. "_That you would spit on all your ancestors sacrificed to keep give you freedom. How is it that your clan could raise one such as you?" _

There was scorn in his voice as he leaned forward, and a small measure of wonder he had perhaps sought to hide. Would the need to dominate others never escape Elvhen blood, even after millennia?

Dalish laughed and the veil of sadness seemed to lift from her shoulders.

"_You are a spirit-mage and a dreamer, Solas. And yet Mahanon tells me you grew up in a tiny village. Did the villagers shape who you are?_"

"_You've spoken of me._"

"_You are an oddity._" she admitted and Solas drew back.

"_Well_."

She chuckled at his nonplussed expression and raised her hands in defense. "_No, please, I meant no offense. Tis just that I…_" She spoke slowly, choosing her words with care. "_Your manner reminds me of nobles I have encountered throughout the years. It brings back memories - mostly fond ones. Though I would urge to keep your magic to yourself if I thought you'd listen._" she amended with a frown.

"_You've had cause to meet many nobles, then?_" Solas asked, ignoring the request.

"_I have been with the Chargers for nearly a decade now and have been away from the clan longer still._" Dalish answered unhesitantly, though the glimmer in her eyes told Solas that it wasn't the entire truth. Still, to have been away from the clan for over a decade...

"_I would have thought you in your twenties._"

"_A flattering assessment, thank you. But I am older than I look. Perhaps even older than you, sire(*)._" Dalish teased.

"_Oh, I doubt that._"

"_If you wish to call me honoured elder from now on, I will not object to it._" she graciously offered, trying to smother a grin even as Solas gave a startled laugh.

"_I've never called anyone honoured elder in my life._" he said with full honesty.

"_Having caught glimpses of that bountiful arrogance you keep hidden under your furs, I believe you._"

"_Sneaking peeks under my furs?_"

Both elves seemed to realize what he'd said at the same time and flushed deeply. Their eyes met across the room in a searching stare; she licked her lips and his eyes flashed to the movement. And then Dalish threw her head back and laughed, and the moment was broken.

"_Blessed Andruil! Come, old man, let us get started on unpacking before we make fools of ourselves._"

Solas looked at her as she worked, mentally moving her piece to different squares on the elaborate chessboard, nearer or farther from the black king. There was time still, until the Breach could be closed. A short dalliance…

Grimacing, he turned his gaze to the floor. It was dangerous to let his mind wander.

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><p>sire(*) - I wanted a respectful form of address (which Obris uses slightly mockingly here) which wasn't the human '<em>ser<em>' or the Dalish '_hahren_'.


End file.
